


A Single Dagger

by not_so_weary_pilgrim



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, dwalin is a marshmallow with muscles and you can’t change my mind, oc and Bilbo are brotp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-02-18 14:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18701776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_so_weary_pilgrim/pseuds/not_so_weary_pilgrim
Summary: Ailvael has lived her life as an outcast - and she expects nothing different from the grumpy, cantankerous Thorin Oakenshield and his company. But she has a duty, and she is determined to see it through no matter how unpleasant circumstances might become.Thorin, for his part, is convinced that this strange woman is out for his blood and that of his kin. But something about her intrigues him, and with every passing danger on their journey he is forced to wonder if there might be more to Ailvael than first meets the eye.A story of longing, of loneliness, of family, and of love.





	1. Chapter 1

“Gandalf.”

The wizard hums around the stem of his pipe, not bothering to turn and look at the slight figure who has joined him on the bench. The Green Dragon is rife with laughter and song; this is the place wherein the spirit of the Shire and its folk is best seen, and Gandalf finds it a balm for his world-weary soul in times such as this.

More importantly, all the ruckus lets his dinner companion go quite unnoticed, which would certainly not be the case had they arranged to meet at the Prancing Pony.

“What did Oakenshield say?”

“He has agreed to the quest.” Gandalf smooths his beard absently. “Though I do not think he is very optimistic in regards to its outcome.”

A delicate snort, more ladylike than she likely intended, comes from the region of his left elbow. “I have spent two years watching Oakenshield as he rules his people in the Blue Mountains, my friend. _Optimistic_ is not in his vocabulary. Though perhaps with good reason.”

He has to agree with her. Thorin is one of the fiercest and noblest dwarfs to ever live in Arda, but his sour outlook is the product of his hardships. One can hardly blame him.

“The meeting of the dwarf lords went as expected. They have all refused to answer his call, saying they will come when he wields the Arkenstone and not a moment sooner.” A small, brown hand lifts a mug of ale for a drink. “Oakenshield was not surprised, but disappointed.”

“And what of you?” Gandalf at last turns to look at her. “What is your opinion on the matter, my dear Ailväel?”

One eyebrow lifts. “I believe I am the sort of person whose actions matter a great deal more than my opinions, _Tharkûn_.”

“Quite so,” he agrees. “But I would ask it regardless.”

Ailväel purses her lips, and sets down her drink. “Thorin Oakenshield is the rightful king of Erebor by blood. Whether or not he holds the Arkenstone should not matter. The clans are cowards to deny him their help because of it, particularly because the very object they are demanding of him will not be his until the quest is complete, and their help is no longer needed.”

She does not mince words. She never has, and that is why she is one of his favorite people to converse with. Gandalf chuckles a bit. “I imagine your father does not know of your feelings on this matter?”

“I have just told you that my opinion on things of this nature is not considered important by anyone save yourself,” she reminds him dryly. “And in any case, can you actually picture my father asking me such a question?”

No, he cannot, Gandalf admits to himself. And that is one more reason why Thorin must be named King Under the Mountain. He is proud and stubborn, but can be persuaded to listen to wisdom.

Sometimes, anyway.

“They are meeting at the hobbit’s home – Bag End, you said it was called?” Ailväel never tarries anywhere for long. She fishes coins out for her ale, leaving enough to pay for Gandalf’s dinner as well.

“Yes, home of Bilbo Baggins. I think you will like him quite well.” Gandalf pats her arm. “Those men from Bree will likely be ahead of you on the road, my dear. Do be careful, and I do not mean only with the mercenaries – I would ask that you try not to antagonize Thorin too much if you should meet him before reaching your destination.”

“ _Tharkûn_ , it is as if you do not know me at all,” Ailväel smirks and pulls up her hood. “I only ever antagonize people if they are trying to kill me.”

She is gone before he can think of a reply.

/

As a general rule, Thorin is not paranoid.

He likes to think that the word only applies to people like Dwalin, who seems to believe that there are threats lurking around every corner (Thorin himself believes there are threats only around every _other_ corner), or Fíli, who carries so many blades that embracing him makes Thorin nervous.

Still, he has learned in his long years of exile that there are only two kinds of people in Middle Earth – those who despise dwarves, and those who demean them. The first is more deadly, of course, but he would almost rather cross paths with those folk than the latter. He has found few things with a more bitter taste than that of his pride, being swallowed as he works in the forges of Men where his stature is a joke and his craftsmanship is a pleasant surprise.

He is not stupid enough to think that this peacefully lush country will be any different. Bree was proof that his caution was warranted; he has been on edge since Gandalf left him to journey ahead and arrange the company’s meeting with their burglar. Thorin traveled to meet with the representatives of the kingdoms, and was disheartened, though not surprised, when not even Dáin would support their cause.

(He cannot really blame his cousin, though; Dáin is a fine dwarf and a trusted ally, but he was not there when the marble floors cracked under scales and claws, did not feel the rush of hot air as the mountainside was broken upon them, did not see his grandfather all but attempt suicide for a rock, did not have to listen to the cries of his people as he led them through barren wilderness, their path littered with tears and the graves of starving children).

And so it is with an expected heavy heart that he makes his way through this place called the Shire. The people here – hobbits, not halflings, Gandalf warned him – seem content, well-fed and blissfully unaware of anything more troublesome than a squeaky door hinge. He’s met enough of them in trade caravans from Ered Luin to know the basics of their kind: it is nigh on impossible to hear them approaching, they love food and growing things and all sorts of soft comforts, and adventures (or any kind of excitement, really) are not considered respectable.

A simple, ordinary life of safety and security.

It makes Thorin’s stomach curdle in bitterness, but he tries to dispel the feeling since it would hardly be fair to be angry with a creature who has simply had better fortune. The blame for Erebor’s fall can be laid two places – at the claws of a bloodthirsty, ravenous dragon, and at the feet of a selfish, gold-blinded king who forgot the love of his kin.

Thorin is caught up in his musings, but not so much that he does not hear the footsteps behind him. Immediately he knows it is not a hobbit; for one, he _can_ hear them, and for another he can tell they are wearing shoes. He picks out two distinct strides, both quite large and heavy, and has a sinking suspicion that his followers are the same two unsavory characters from The Prancing Pony.

He does not look behind him, he knows better by now, but he adjusts his grip on his sword and makes sure his cloak does not hinder his access to the dagger on his opposite hip.

Glancing ahead, he can tell where the attack will occur – there is a bend in the road, cut into the hill, and on the slope above there is a massive maple tree. The spot is quite out of sight from any nearby residents of the Shire, and in the gathering dusk no one would see his body hidden behind the tree until well into the next day.

He sighs, wondering when he had to start doing his hunters’ job for them. As he nears the tree he does not let his shoulders tense until he hears the footsteps quicken (honestly, he thinks in irritation, they could at least _try_ to be stealthy).

He meets the first one’s sword with his own, but the second is there almost too quickly for him to evade that strike. It is indeed the same two men from the Prancing Pony, both appearing to be only moderately skilled with the blade but of the mindset that their size advantage makes up for it. He scoffs internally, sidestepping from a blow with laughable ease and ramming the hilt of his sword into the man’s nose.

He turns, and has half a heartbeat to see the sword aimed for his neck, with ample time to counter it.

Something flashes past him, above his left ear and ruffling his hair; sword still half-raised, Thorin blinks at the arrow protruding from the man’s eye as he collapses into the dirt.

He turns, staring stupidly at the cloaked figure just ahead on the path as they draw another arrow.

He has a moment to think the archer is aiming for him, but before he can dodge they fire, and he turns, sees the second arrow take his other attacker in the throat, leaving a second corpse in the road.

Straightening, Thorin keeps his sword drawn and ready as his rescuer approaches, but almost drops it when the hood is pulled back.

She doesn’t look very old, perhaps in her thirties, though he knows that is more than fully grown for humans. Her black hair reflects blue in the fading sunlight, and her dark skin and darker eyes mark her from southern Gondor at least, if not further south. From her clothing, he can tell she lives quite entirely on the road, as her boots are a bit worn and the sword at her waist has a hilt and scabbard that look oft used but well cared for. She is not clothed in the traditional garments of Women, but all in leather: trousers and an odd garment resembling a long robe that has been split down the middle of the skirt in both the front and back.

Perhaps the most striking thing about her, he notices with no small amount of trepidation, is the staggering number of knives and daggers tucked about her person. He can spot at least four on her torso alone, and he would bet his beard that there are more secreted beneath the lower folds of her tunic. He is reminded oddly and terrifyingly of Fíli.

“Good evening, Master Oakenshield.”

That brings his sword back up immediately; assassins do like to be paid after all, and it is not farfetched to suppose that this woman has merely eliminated her competitors.

“I do not believe we have met,” he replies, using his best glare. To his immense irritation, she does not so much as bat an eye, and instead calmly stoops to retrieve her arrows.

“No,” she agrees absently as she checks the men’s pockets for coin. “We have not. But now we have. I am Ailväel.”

 _Very good_ , he thinks. _The assassin has manners, and a name_.

She straightens to her full height – which is only just even with his chin, to his surprise – and eyes his sword with something that looks like amusement.

“I am not your enemy, my lord. In fact, I would wager that Gandalf would call me your friend, though I suppose you would protest it.”

“Vehemently.” He lowers his blade a fraction, watches her drag the bodies behind the tree and scuff the dirt path so the bloodstains are not as obvious in the dwindling light. Still, if she knows the wizard… “How came you to know Gandalf?”

“Oh, I have known him for many years,” she waves a hand airily, examining the fletching on her retrieved arrows and frowning at them. “I am on my way to meet him, actually.”

 _That_ sends Thorin almost sputtering, a state he has not been in since the last time Dís thought he wished to court one of the dwarrowdams in Ered Luin.

Most annoyingly, Ailväel seems to notice his confusion. “Perhaps we could travel together, as I suspect we are headed to the same place.”

“I think not.”

“No? You are not journeying to Bag End?”

This entire conversation _reeks_ of Gandalf, and it is half because this woman converses exactly like the wizard does – in circles and riddles, never saying quite what she means. He adjusts his grip on his sword that is now hanging by his side, but he is not sheathing it until she bloody _leaves him alone_.

“My journey is none of your concern,” he bites out.

Her eyebrows raise. “My concern is my own to give,” she says mildly, though he can hear the first, faintest hint of steel beneath the niceties. “And seeing as my concern just saved your life, I daresay it is well placed.”

“Be that is it may,” he says through gritted teeth, “I do not travel with strangers.”

Ailväel sighs. “We know each other’s names, and even have a common friend in Gandalf. Are we still strangers?”

“Aye,” he growls. “I call all but my kin strangers.”

“Hm.” She eyes him. “Very well, we are strangers. But I hardly think I have given you reason to distrust me.”

“I distrust all strangers,” he says, pointedly. “In my experience they either want to rob me or kill me.”

She rolls her eyes. “The only things on you worth stealing are your weapons, which are all wrong for a person of my stature and build, and I could not sell them outside of Ered Luin where I would surely raise suspicion. And I have been following you since Bree, if I wanted you dead it would have been before we reached an area as populated as Hobbiton. _I_ am not an inexperienced fool,” she juts her chin towards the now hidden corpses. “So I do not think you really have a reason to distrust me, sir, except for your own determination to have an ill opinion of anyone you have not known since you were a dwarfling.”

“You are mistaken, I trust a great many folk I have known for not a long time,” Thorin snaps.

“One of which I presume to be Gandalf, and I have already told you he is my friend. What reason then do you have to suspect me?”

He might as well argue with a fence post.

He takes a deep, calming breath through his nose, like Balin taught him. “I mean no insult,” he says slowly, hoping she will leave him be if he makes an attempt at being polite. “But I do not trust anyone upon first meeting them. You are right, you have given me no cause to suspect you. But neither have you proven yourself trustworthy.”

Ailväel studies him for a moment, and shrugs. “Very well, I suppose I cannot fault you for that. But I do think we should journey on together, for I am also headed to Bag End, though you appear to be most displeased by the idea.”

He _is_ most displeased by the idea, but he knows it will be fruitless to say it. He grits his teeth again, imagining all of the shouting he is going to be well within his rights to hurl at the wizard, and is about to sheath his sword when he hears it.

Ailväel hears it, too, and goes taut as a bowstring.

There really is a shortage, Thorin muses, of capable, stealthy mercenaries. Even _he_ could walk quieter than whoever is coming around the bend now. Of course, it could very well be members of his company, except the footsteps are too far apart, the strides too long to be a dwarf. It is Men headed towards them, and armed ones by the sound of it.

Ailväel doesn’t appear impressed either, grumbling under her breath and drawing her sword – a blade similar in design to his own, but narrower and more elegant in its lines, which makes him frown in further suspicion – without the merest scrape of metal.

To his surprise, she appears to be a strategist of the same mindset as him, and joins him on the upper slope of the hill, beneath the shadows of the maple. The sun has now set, though the sky is still pinker than it is dark blue, but it is dark enough to disguise them for a moment.

He hears the conversation as the two – no, three – assassins draw nearer, and his name is mentioned once, which makes Ailväel roll her eyes. He hears her mumble something about _incompetence_ and _insulting_ but he has no time to ponder what she means before the group draws abreast of them.

Thorin watches, dumbstruck, as Ailväel swings wide and buries the edge of her blade in the side of one’s throat; blood spurts, thick and hot and sticky, over her chest and shoulders. The sword is lodged firmly within her target, and she doesn’t hesitate as she releases the weapon, lets it fall with its prey and she ducks away from the sword of the second man. Thorin finds himself caught in a fight – which is somewhat of a challenge, this time around – with the third and final member of the company, and so only notices on the edge of his periphery that she has drawn twin daggers, long and lethal enough to probably make Fíli swoon, and is holding her own quite nicely.

He spares a moment to be impressed, nicks his opponent’s cheek with the tip of his blade, then wallops him in the head with the hilt, which sends the fellow staggering, and Thorin spins away to find himself staring at the end of a wicked sharp dagger.

He curses; there was a fourth assailant who waited to come round the bend until he had an opening like this one, and the third has recovered and goes to retrieve his sword from beside the path where Thorin kicked it only moments earlier. They do not waste a single moment, joining forces and backing him into the hill above. The third manages to knock his sword from his grasp, while the fourth pulls an arm back, knife aimed for Thorin’s throat, and for the second time that day Thorin watches in stupid amazement as something flashes past his shoulder in the dim twilight and lodges firmly in the man’s neck.

The mercenary gives an awful, gurgling choked sort of noise; Thorin turns to see Ailväel now fighting with just one dagger, only she looks over at him and her eyes widen.

“Duck!”

He obeys immediately, and behind him the third man also drops beside his sword, a crimson stain spreading out from the knife in his chest.

Thorin is not so arrogant as to not appreciate it when someone saves his life, but nor is he stupid enough to have forgotten that Ailväel just threw her last dagger.

Upon rising to his feet, intending to go running to her aid, however, he discovers that he _was_ evidently stupid enough to forget that he spotted at least two other blades on her earlier.

Ailväel fights with another single blade, smaller than the first pair she drew, but she wields it with such confidence and grace that it hardly matters. Thorin closes in on her opponent from his other side, and together they finish him off quickly.

She is panting, and puts a hand to the steep bank above them for a moment as she wipes the sweat from her upper lip.

“You are well?” She asks, sheathing her knife on the inside of her thigh. Thorin pointedly looks away – he has decided he is mortally afraid of this strange woman ever meeting his oldest nephew – and sets about cleaning his sword.

“I am. Are you?”

She shrugs, bends and tugs her sword free from the first man’s neck with a horrible squelching sound, cleans it on his coat and sheathes it.

“I have been better, but I have also been worse. We should make haste before we are caught traveling in the complete dark.”

It is already rather dark out; he can see more than a few stars clearly, but dwarrow can see with little light and so he does not miss the way she limps as she goes to retrieve her two daggers.

“You are injured,” he states.

“Aye,” she hums, cleaning the blades and putting them away – twin scabbards on her ribs, lying just below her breasts. “But it does not seem to be too serious. A night of rest will do it much good, I think.”

She doesn’t say anything else as they drag the four bodies away to join the two from earlier, kicking some fallen leaves and grass to cover them, and when they return to the path she carries on as though she still intends to travel with him. He grits his teeth a third time, but she has saved his life more than once tonight and that cannot be ignored.

“Allow me,” he grumbles, kneels, and is a little surprised when she obligingly turns so he can properly see the small cut on the side of her calf, just above her boot. He inspects it for a moment, and nods.

“I agree that it does not appear terrible. There is a healer among my company – though I suppose you already knew that,” he says bitterly as he stands again.

Her mouth twitches. “No, actually. I was only given your name, though I am aware that your two sister-sons are making the journey as well.”

The fact that she only knows about him and his kin further cements his belief that her objective is to kill him (and his nephews, he thinks with no small amount of protective fear), but he again spots the numerous blades tucked about her person, to say nothing of her sword and bow.

He suddenly realizes that if a person like this wants him dead, he wants her directly under his nose – and, incidentally, Dwalin’s and Nori’s.

“Very well.” He even offers his arm, but she shakes her head.

“It is not quite as bad as that,” she assures him, and he nods and falls into step beside her.

The Shire is just as peaceful in the dark as it is at noon; cheerful lights twinkle from the round windows of the underground burrows Hobbits seem to prefer. He can hear the dim laughter and music from an inn somewhere nearby and can see plumes of smoke from cook stoves everywhere.

It is exactly the kind of existence he wishes for his own, and so he quickens the pace, as much as his companion’s injury will allow; he is eager to get the final legalities of the quest out of the way, though he knows he cannot make the morning come any sooner.

“This way.”

The path has forked, and to his mortification Ailväel is pointing in the opposite direction he is headed. She looks amused, so he sets his worst scowl firmly on his face and marches along, following her (polite, but still embarrassingly necessary) directions whenever the path forks again.

Unfortunately, Ailväel’s leg begins to bother her more with the exertion of climbing uphill, and so by the time he knocks on the strange green door with its glowing rune, and hears the singing cut off abruptly, he has more than once fought the urge to insist she allow him to help. But the door opens, and he is spared from pretending to care about someone who wishes him dead.

“Ah, Thorin. Do come in – and I see you have met our fifteenth member. Ailväel my dear, how are you?”

“Well enough, my friend.” Ailväel winces as she hobbles over the threshold. “Master Hobbit, I am afraid I must forego introductions at this present moment. Would you kindly show me your washroom?”

A small, timid creature peeks around Gandalf, eyes widening at the sight of a woman in armor and covered in blood. “Wha – oh. Oh, dear. Yes, of course, are you – my goodness, I….do you need help?” The hobbit frets and wrings his hands a bit as he ushers Ailväel down the hall out of sight, and Thorin does not miss the way more than half his company’s eyes follow her. Once she rounds the bend they all turn to him, but he takes a moment to chew over how exactly he wants to deliver his lecture to the wizard. He slowly removes his cloak and hands it to Kíli, returning the lad’s smile.

“I thank you for the mark on the door, my friend. We would not have found it otherwise.”

“We?” Dwalin is already grumpy – partly by default, and partly because he has not given Ailväel permission to be in such close proximity to Thorin, and yet there she was. Thorin feels a little soothed by the normalcy already as he turns to Gandalf.

“She claims she knows you.”

“Oh yes, she’s a good lass. Strong fighter. A bit of a wild spirit, but kind and sensible.” Gandalf hums as he sets about lighting his pipe.

Thorin eyes him for a moment longer, and decides he wants Ailväel present for this discussion.

“Óin, the lady was injured on our way here. She seems stubborn enough to resist aid, but likely would benefit from your skill.” He knows he has opened the door to dozens more questions, but for now he merely watches their healer bustle off after the intruder and their host.

“Hm.” Gandalf looks slightly put out. “I suppose introductions shall have to wait then. What sort of trouble did you encounter?”

Thorin glances about the now chatting company to make sure no one besides Dwalin and Balin are listening. “Those foul men from Bree tracked me here. I was in the midst of fighting them off when that… _woman_ appears out of the shadows and claims to know me and my kin, and you.”

“Well now, I would say that she only knows _of_ you and your kin.” Gandalf puffs his pipe in a way that tells Thorin that Ailväel’s appearance is no accident.

 _Confounded wizard_.

“Are there any more unexpected guests we need to wait for?” he asks, purposefully letting the sarcasm in his voice run bitter.

Gandalf, either oblivious or indifferent to Thorin’s temper, hums and shakes his head. “No, no, that completes our party. Though I daresay you do not do Lady Ailväel justice. I highly doubt she simply popped out of thin air and did not offer you aid with those deplorable men.”

Dwalin grunts. “She’s got enough weapons on ‘er, surely she knows how to use ‘em.”

Thorin grits his teeth. “Aye,” he grudgingly agrees. “She’s a skilled fighter. We were attacked a second time and she saved my life once again.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “And yet you are still so unpleasantly mistrusting. Really, Thorin. How uncouth.”

“ _Uncouth?_ ” Thorin can only gape up at him. “What is to say she is not simply another mercenary and she was eliminating her competitors?”

“The fact that you are still alive, for one.” Gandalf frowns. “Ailväel is an odd lass, but she means no harm to you or your kin. As for her unexpected addition to your company, are you suggesting that you would not have protested the idea?”

That is rather the point of Thorin’s entire argument, and so he can only sit in rage as Gandalf hums again.

“You mean to take her wit’ us, to the Mountain.” Dwalin growls.

“Raise all the fuss you like, Dwalin, but there is no one you’d rather have on your side in a fight against orcs.”

That is the one quality of hers thus far that Thorin has no trouble accepting. Anyone who is proficient in destroying that sort of vermin cannot be all bad. His friends notice the change in his posture that indicates his stubbornness is waning. They both sigh.

“Could we not do without her?” Balin asks.

“Possibly,” Gandalf admits, his fingers worrying over the bowl of his pipe. “But it will be a great deal easier with her assistance. She is really quite invaluable in a fight.”

“ _Tharkûn_ , you must think I am a piece of bread to butter me up so.”

Óin is hovering close behind her, but save for a very slight limp, Thorin would never guess that Ailväel had been injured as she reappears from the back of the burrow. The blood is all but gone, except for a few spots on the collar of her leather tunic.

But he almost forgets about their trouble on the road entirely, hearing the Khuzdul name for the wizard drop so easily from her lips, and with a perfect pronunciation.

Every dwarf in the room goes rigid.

Gandalf merely chuckles. “No, my dear girl. I am only telling the truth. Come, I am sure you have not eaten yet today, and you likely ought to get off that leg.”

“Aye,” Óin frowns at her. “I don’t want it bleeding again. You’re to sit and _remain_ seated for the rest of the evening, lass.”

To Thorin’s surprise, Ailväel nods. “As you say, Master Óin. Thank you for your services.”

Her manners are still impeccable, but most of the company still look suspicious. His nephews look intrigued, and Dwalin merely looks slightly angrier than normal.

Ailväel smiles politely at them all as she hobbles over to the table and eases into a chair. “Good evening, my lords. I am Ailväel, and Gandalf has hired me as the fifteenth member of your company.”

There is a pause, then –

“Hullo,” Bofur tips his hat cheerfully. Bifur narrows his eyes but then slides his chair over to make room, and Bombur glances up from his chicken pie to nod acknowledgement. Glóin merely tugs at his beard, frowning at her as Dori draws Ori under his wings, further away from her. Nori lurks in the corner, observing as always, though tonight Balin rivals him for silent skepticism.

Dwalin folds his arms across his chest and glowers.

“Where did you say you hail from, woman?”

Thorin has to fight a smirk; few people are capable of expressing their dislike with as much efficiency and as few words as Dwalin.

“I didn’t, but I was raised in Nardorahl.”

Bombur actually quits eating, at last realizing something is amiss when the strange woman claims to have grown up in the fortress of the Iron Hills.

Thorin feels the vein on his forehead pulsing. “Were you.”

“Yes, she was,” Gandalf interjects. “And by a good, respectable family of leather-smiths. Your cousin approved the adoption himself.”

Dáin has never mentioned a Woman living amongst his people, but that does not surprise Thorin. His cousin is not the sort to mention details like that unless it either comes up in conversation (which it hasn’t) or he is directly asked about it (which he hasn’t been). And judging from Ailväel’s weapons and demeanor, he is willing to bet that she is not a craftswoman any longer, and now probably is a member of the guard – doing the same kind of work that Nori does. An asset like that, a Woman who spies for dwarves, is a great one, he admits. None of their enemies would ever suspect a thing.

He feels faintly impressed, and so does everyone else, judging by the nudging of elbows and whispering taking place in Fíli and Kíli’s corner of the table. But it all does nothing to lessen his irritation with how this scenario was brought about in the first place.

“If you are so respectable,” he says gravely, causing even his nephews to sober up, “why were you following me from a distance?”

“I didn’t,” she replies, leaning comfortably back in her chair as though his interrogation is exactly what she expected, and smiles kindly at their host. “Master Baggins, might I bother you for some tea?”

“You…you didn’t follow me.” Thorin repeats, wondering if he is perhaps dreaming.

“No. If you recall, milord, I was ahead of you on the path when the first mercenaries accosted you.”

Thorin scowls as Fíli and Kíli erupt into concerned outrage. “That wasn’t for everyone in the company to know, woman.”

“You were the one who brought up the subject,” she counters reasonably, and turns to thank the hobbit for the mug of tea and plate of scones he puts in front of her. Dwalin stirs to life, pulling a bowl of stew off a table in the corner where he likely hid it earlier from Bombur, and plunks it in front of Thorin.

Ailväel helps herself to the butter and blackberry jam and tucks into the food with gusto, seemingly unbothered at the scrutiny of thirteen dwarves.

“You said yourself you had been following me since Bree.”

Rather than the cornered look his nephews adopt when he manages to pin some mischief on them, Ailväel seems pleased. “Good. You were listening.” She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, messily clearing it of crumbs, and leans forward on her elbows. “I’d been alternating between trailing you – from less of a distance than you think – and scouting ahead, because it was quite obvious to me that you had absolutely no idea where you were going.”

That gets a surprised _whoof_ from Dwalin, and in the corner Fíli and Kíli snicker. Thorin’s aptitude at getting lost is a bit of a family joke, and normally he can take the teasing in stride.

But now? Thorin takes a bite of stew just to keep his mouth occupied; he has no desire to start a new habit of cursing at women. It would surely cause Dís to crawl out of the woodwork and box his ears, and would set a poor example for her sons besides. Ailväel seems to know she has hit a nerve, and peers at him over the rim of her mug. To his frustration, he can see the twinkle of amusement in her dark eyes.

He only glares back stonily. The mirth leaves her face, and she huffs.

“Very well, then.” Ailväel sets aside both plate and cup, and pushes up her sleeve to hold her arm out, palm facing upward. “Seeing as you will not be satisfied by anything less, here is the best proof I have that I am not your enemy.”

Thorin stares at the tattoo on her inner forearm.

“That’s Khuzdul!” Kíli exclaims.

“Aye.” Ailväel gestures for them all to inspect the runes more closely. “See what you make of it.”

“What do they say?” the hobbit asks, peering over Bofur’s shoulder.

“ _Hanfûna_.”

Fíli sounds as Thorin feels – utterly and totally confused, as though he walked outside this morning and the sky had suddenly turned green.

Thorin has not felt this surprised in decades; he knows the look of dwarvish ink when he sees it. Those marks were not made by any Man.

“What does that mean?” the hobbit frowns in confusion.

“Lady of the Knives.” Dwalin’s glare is even more suspicious.

“As you can see,” Ailväel shrugs. “I adopted the title with gusto.”

Thorin can only stare.

“Does that satisfy you, Thorin?” Gandalf puffs his pipe in the corner, looking very pleased with himself.

His suspicions? Only slightly.

His curiosity? Not even close.

“I suppose it will have to.” Thorin studies Ailväel again, but she meets his gaze evenly. There is no deceit in her eyes. “I would still have liked to been told of her presence on our quest beforehand.”

“That was due to bad luck,” she says, shrugging apologetically. “I myself was not certain whether or not I would be making the journey until I spoke with Gandalf, and you had already left him. There was simply no time.”

“I suppose I’ll make up another contract, then,” Balin says cordially, but Thorin can see the wariness in his old friend’s eyes.

“No need,” Ailväel licks blackberry jam off her thumb. “I am not claiming a share of the treasure.”

Thorin rubs his forehead, something he only used to do during council meetings in Ered Luin. “It is fitting that you are given a contract, as the rest of us have signed one already. Though what your job description will be is anyone’s guess.”

She shrugs again. “Bodyguard. It fits well enough.”

He’s quite sure she means that to be a dig at the assistance she gave him on the road, but he chooses to believe otherwise, if only because he is tired and irritable, and they still have to speak with the hobbit.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt…but – job description?”

Speaking of…

“Master Hobbit. Have you any experience in fighting?”

The little man blinks. “I…I beg your pardon?”

“Axe or sword, what’s your weapon of choice?”

Flustered, their host responds, “Well, I am quite skilled at conkers, if you must know. It’s all in the wrist, really. But I don’t exactly see why that’s relevant.”

Thorin smirks, and opens his mouth to state that this hobbit is precisely what he anticipated – soft, naïve, and ill-equipped for their journey – when he glances across the table and meets his new _bodyguard’s_ eye. He falters, unprepared for the disapproving look she is sending in his direction. He has seen it many times on his sister, aimed at himself but more often at his nephews and it always means the same thing:

_I know what you’re up to, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself._

Without meaning to, he swallows the disparaging remark and says instead, “It is no matter, you can always learn as we travel. There are many apt teachers amongst us.”

The hobbit seems quite appreciative of that, despite having no earthly idea just what, exactly, lessons with Dwalin will entail, but Thorin catches the gleam of approval in Ailväel’s eyes, and it makes him irritable all over again. Really! Cowing before this woman as though she were his _‘amad_ , taking him to task with a single look!

“And you, madam. What’s your preference in a fight?”

She grins, bright and sharp, around her mug – full of ale, now – and smoothly replies, “My preference is to not be in a fight to begin with, my lord, but if it is unavoidable I usually reach for my daggers first.”

“Surely not all of them at once?” is out of his mouth before he can stop it, along with a teasing smirk as his irritation inexplicably fades, and she throws her head back and laughs heartily.

“How many have you got on you, anyway?” Fíli has clearly been choking on that question since they arrived. Thorin hides his grin in his own drink.

“Fifteen daggers, young master, and my sword and bow besides.”

He immediately regrets taking that last sip of ale, as he nearly chokes on it. _Fifteen?_ She is the same height as their burglar, and lacks the thickset build of dwarrowdams. He has seen children of her race that are bigger than she is.

Wherever does she keep them all?

As soon as the – potentially inappropriate – question pops into his head, he wishes it hadn’t, but it does not matter because Kíli actually voices it.

Dori splutters in the corner, but Ailväel looks amused. “I’ve got good sense, Master Kíli, which means I know better than to reveal my secrets. But I’ll tell you this – you can see all of them save one, but only if you look closely enough.”

“What about the one?” Fíli asks, grinning rakishly. Dori squawks, and pulls Ori further away from their disreputable guest. Thorin dearly wishes the his heir was close enough to kick under the table – better yet, he wishes Dís were here to quell such an inappropriate question with but a single glare.

To her credit, Ailväel smiles kindly at him, like a younger brother. “I am afraid the last is in a rather unmentionable place, and for the sake of Master Dori in the corner I shall not reveal it. But of all the others it is the one I can rely on to always be within reach.”

Having taken the gentle rebuke with good grace, Fíli stares at her. “You don’t keep all of them hidden?”

“No.”

“How’s your aim?” This from Dwalin, who looks like he wants to be impressed and is most annoyed by the idea.

“Deadly.” Thorin surprises himself again by responding, and ignores the smirk across the table. “As I was saying, Master Hobbit – “

“Baggins.” Their host interrupts, fidgeting. “With all the…er, hubbub we were never properly introduced. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Thorin nods. “Thorin Oakenshield. I trust Gandalf has explained why he thinks we require your skills.”

“He…didn’t – wait a moment, _skills?_ Skills at what?”

A beat of pounding silence, then –

“You didn’t tell him?”

Gandalf shifts a bit, quelling under Ailväel’s thunderous frown. “Now, my dear, I – “

“Don’t _my dear_ at me, you wandering, meddlesome busybody.” She leans towards the wizard, glaring at him, and Thorin cannot blame Bifur for scooting in the opposite direction. “Why would you not tell him? The polite thing to have done would be to have warned him yesterday! Did he have no notice at all that he was to host our party?” Without waiting for an answer, Ailväel turns to Bilbo. “I daresay we have eaten your larders bare, Master Baggins. I am most dreadfully sorry.”

Bilbo, who looks to have been thinking along those very lines until now, smiles kindly and pats her on the arm. “Oh, well now, there’s no…er, _lingering_ harm done. Hobbits keep their cellars very well stocked, so at least everyone had enough to eat. And they all did the dishes, so that was rather nice of them.”

“That is common courtesy for dwarves, and our bellies are not the concern.” Ailväel turns to the wizard. “Tharkûn, you will sit down this moment and explain to Master Baggins why he was the unexpected host to fifteen this evening.”

It’s an order, which Thorin has until now believed are not given to Gandalf, but the old man nods, looking relieved.

“Yes, of course, my dear girl. Bilbo, a little more light, if you please.”

A candle is brought, and Thorin takes his cue from Gandalf to spread the map on the table, letting the wizard do the talking. The quest sounds all the more foolish when explained like this, but Ailväel shows no surprise or uncertainty, only rapt attention as she listens to the plan.

The hobbit, however, seems to think it’s just a story for his benefit until Bofur asks if he is an expert burglar.

“What – I beg your pardon, I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”

“We meant no offense,” Ailväel cuts in kindly. “This is really a matter of stealing back what has already _been_ stolen, you see. Nothing dishonorable about it. And they could really use your help, my friend.”

Bilbo looks a little less outraged and a little more intrigued, and so he takes the proffered contract from Balin and begins looking it over. His mumbling becomes more and more manic as he continues through the section on funeral arrangements, and by the time he reaches the disclaimers he’s gone quite pale.

“ _Incineration?_ ”

“Oh, aye. He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink o’ an eye.” Bofur pipes up.

The hobbit turns away, puts his hands on his knees.

“You all right, laddie?” Balin asks, not unkindly.

“Oh yes, of course, he’s just fine,” Ailväel mutters into her ale, but Thorin seems to be the only one who hears her.

“Air, I – I need air.”

“Think furnace, with wings!” Bofur continues, bright and cheery as ever.

“Feel a bit faint,” Bilbo manages, taking a deep breath.

“Flashing light, searing pain, then – poof! You’re nothin’ more than a pile o’ ash!”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Ailväel says, sharply, but it’s too late. The hobbit crumples to the floor.

Thorin sighs.

“I was just tryin’ to help,” Bofur says, rather subdued as he watches Ailväel and Óin roll Bilbo onto his back and begin to fuss over him.

“Yes, very helpful Bofur,” Gandalf says mildly. The hobbit begins to stir only moments later, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Wha – oh dear. I fainted, didn’t I?”

“It was not your fault, Master Baggins,” Ailväel says kindly, as she helps their host sit up. “It’s a bit much for someone who’s never had to face these things before.”

Bilbo pauses in trying to clamber back to his feet, and looks into Ailväel’s eyes. “You’ve faced them before, though. Haven’t you?”

“I…” Ailväel blinks, looking disarmed for the first time since Thorin met her, but only for a moment. “Well, yes and no. I have fought orcs, and men, and many other dangerous creatures. But I have never faced a dragon.”

“Gandalf has though,” Kíli pipes up. “I bet he’s killed _hundreds_ of dragons!”

“Kíli,” Thorin tries to warn, but Ori is already gasping, eyes lighting up with hope.

“Really? Hundreds?”

Gandalf blusters, fumbling his way through an explanation, and then Ailväel laughs.

“Hundreds?” She snorts, heaving Bilbo to his feet and thrusting a mug of tea (appearing by Dori’s mother-hen sensibilities) into his hands. “Honestly, Tharkûn, they are not the children who gather at your feet for stories.”

“I am well aware, Ailväel,” Gandalf says tersely.

“So…you haven’t, then?” Kíli says, disappointed.

“Of course he hasn’t,” Ailväel responds stoutly. She returns to her seat when Óin starts fussing at her. “No one has. Dragons are a rare kind; in fact, Smaug is the only one south of Mount Gundabad. That does not seal the fate of this quest, however. We must not lose heart simply because none of us have done this before. Imagine all the great things that would never be done if their doers were afraid of the being the first.”

There’s a pause, during which Thorin tries desperately to ignore the warm glow in his chest that her words have ignited, and then Balin clears his throat.

“Well said, lassie.” He regards the map. “Though the problem of so few going up against a dragon is still a mighty one indeed. Thorin, did all the clans send envoys?”

His heart sinks. How he hates disappointing his company like this.

“Aye. All seven.”

“Is Dáin with us?” Dwalin cuts to the chase.

Thorin makes himself meet his friend in the eye. “He will not come.”

Amidst the murmur of disappointment that ripples around the table, he notices Ailväel has gone rather quiet. But when he looks over she is sipping slowly from her ale, staring at the map. He frowns and folds it to put it away, back inside his coat.

“Well,” Balin says. “We knew it was a possibility, that they would consider this to be our quest, and ours alone. But perhaps it is for the better; we still do not have a way into the mountain. The front gate is sealed.”

“Ah.” Gandalf smiles, and reaches into his robes. “I think this might help.”

Thorin stares, dumbfounded, at the key. “Where did you get this?”

“Your father gave it to me for safekeeping,” Gandalf answers. “It is yours, now.”

Thorin holds the aged, twisted key to his home, his birthright, and thumbs a bit of rust that has gathered on the bow. The hope of his people feels heavy and solid in his hand.

“There’s another way in.” Fíli sounds awed.

Thorin stares at the best chance he has had in decades of reclaiming what they have lost, and tries not to weep.

“Aye. The mountain…it is ours,” he says, quietly.

“We’ve got a way to sneak up on the beast!” Kíli looks like he is about to call for more ale to celebrate.

“You….you’re really going to go, then.”

They all turn to look at the hobbit, who stands looking small and afraid.

“Yes, Bilbo.” Ailväel’s voice is not harsh, but not really gentle either. Thorin looks at her in surprise. “It is their home. They must go.”

Bilbo looks at her. “But…but a _dragon_.” The question in his eyes does not need to be voiced. Ailväel glances at Thorin before putting a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder.

“A dragon shall be a very great foe indeed. Which is why they need your help so much.”

“My help? What on earth could I possibly do against a dragon?”

“I agree with the lad,” Balin sighs. “It would be asking far too much of gentle folk to embark on such a treacherous journey.”

“Aye, the wild is no place for those who cannot fight nor fend for themselves.” Dwalin scoffs and crosses his arms, and turns his glower on Ailväel when she leans forward.

“Master Dwalin, your leader has already promised to provide instruction for Master Baggins en route. How can you be so unwilling to teach someone how to be _less_ defenseless?”

“More like I’m experienced enough to know when someone is a lost cause,” he snaps. Thorin sees very real anger, dark and dangerous, flash in Ailväel’s eyes, and steps in, only because he is aware of what this woman is capable of, and has no wish for his oldest friend to learn it the same way the scoundrels from Bree did.

“Peace, Dwalin. If Master Baggins’ redeeming qualities are being light on his feet and keeping a clear head, he has the potential to make a passable fighter, albeit not a mighty one.”

Bilbo looks, if possible, even more uncertain; Ailväel and Dwalin are glaring at each other, chests heaving and brows thickly furrowed. Thorin clears his throat.

“Until he is able to hold his own, Ailväel, you shall be his keeper. Look after him, make sure he does not – “

“No.”

Thorin blinks. “No?”

“No,” Ailväel repeats, most of the anger leaving her face as she turns to him. “My place on this journey is not to protect our burglar.”

“Then what _is_ your place, woman?” Dwalin growls.

“To protect my _king_ ,” Ailväel growls right back. She points to Thorin, and his nephews. “The Sons of Durin are my charges. I will not abandon the others in danger, but delivering the three of them to Erebor alive is my chief concern.”

Thorin honestly does not know what to say. He hardly knows what to _think_. Dwalin glares down at the small woman, brow heavy with scorn, and opens his mouth. Ailväel cuts him off.

“You do not trust me. That is well, because a guard whose trust can be earned over a single meal and an hour’s conversation is not a guard whose trust is worth having. But I do not care; I am the reason Thorin arrived here safe and hale tonight, and I _will_ be at least part of the reason he arrives safe and hale to reclaim the Mountain.”

Gandalf, Thorin notices, is almost obscured in pipe smoke, but is staring at Ailväel through the haze.

“A woman who volunteers to escort the king, who claims to have been adopted and raised by dwarves…you cannot say it is not suspicious.” Balin chews on the end of his own pipe, a single glance sending Dwalin back to his seat.

“I am not here of my own free will. Not even Lord Dáin knows that I am here,” Ailväel says, suddenly subdued and quiet. “I was hired.”

“By whom?” Thorin regains his voice, trying not to look as unnerved as he feels.

“I cannot say.”

Thorin does not miss the way her eyes flit to the wizard for the barest of moments.

Balin huffs. “You can hardly expect us to – “

“I expect nothing.” Ailväel sighs, rubs one hand over her face. “I would not be surprised if you tried to leave without me in the morning. It will not matter, because I will simply follow you. You do not have to trust me, you do not have to like me. I am not here to become anyone’s friend. I am simply here because this is where I am most needed.”

“And who decides where you are needed – your employer, or Gandalf?” Thorin asks, sarcastically.

“Both.” Ailväel does not take the bait, and holds his gaze evenly without cowering. He recognizes the signs of a person whose will is harder than stone – _raised by dwarves indeed_ , he thinks. He knows it is useless to pry further – but his earlier assessment on the road stands. If this woman has decided it is her duty to watch over him and his kin, then he wants her close enough to be watched in return.

“Very well.” Balin and Dwalin look at him incredulously. “You shall journey with us, under contract, but shall receive a lesser portion of the treasure.”

“I want _no_ portion,” she says emphatically.

He manages not to roll his eyes. “Fine. Balin, alter the contract accordingly. Master Baggins, are you with us?”

All eyes turn to the forgotten hobbit, who twiddles his thumbs nervously. “I – I suppose I couldn’t ask what, exactly, I’ll be stealing?”

“Aye, that’d be the Arkenstone.” Bofur chimes in, evidently eager to assist in a way that will not involve swooning. “King’s Jewel, heart o’ the mountain, seen as divine approval from Mahal himself for the line o’ Durin to rule, an’ all that.”

Bilbo blinks. “All – all that. Of course.”

Thorin is almost positive he saw Ailväel roll her eyes during Bofur’s lengthy description, but when she turns to the hobbit her voice is free of sarcasm or derision.

“Make no mistake, Bilbo, this will not be an easy task. Dragons guard their hoards with unparalleled ferocity. And a gem of such great worth will not have gone unnoticed by him. He will know the moment you put your hands on it.”

Bilbo stares at her, then the key, then Thorin, and then back to Ailväel.

“You…you want me to sneak into a dragon’s hoard, and find one jewel?”

“Without waking him, would certainly be preferable.” Balin confirms politely, all while making it inescapably clear how surprised he will be if Bilbo accomplishes the feat.

“Right.” The hobbit rubs his forehead in distress. “So how big is the hoard, anyway? I presume if it was big enough to tempt him in the first place it must be quite impressive.”

That is one of the more intelligent things he has said all evening, and it makes Thorin appraise him with new eyes.

“The wealth of Erebor is unprecedented. But the Arkenstone is a gem like no other. Even someone who does not have stone sense, as dwarves do, would notice it.”

That seems to appease Bilbo somewhat; he turns on his heel and begins to pace his foyer.

“Well, Bilbo?” Gandalf prompts after a moment or two.

The hobbit stops and looks at them incredulously. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”

“Ho! He’s with us, lads!” Bofur toasts their burglar, and the company echo his cheer before scurrying into the kitchen for more mead. Their raucous chatter grows muffled as they move further into the smial – he has honestly no hope of finding anything in this place, with its curved, burrowing halls and rounded ceilings – until he, the sons of Fundin, the wizard, Bilbo, and Ailväel are left.

“Wonderful.” Gandalf stirs to life, the pipe smoke dissipating as he rises to his feet, hunched over under the low ceiling. “The contracts, if you please Balin.”

Balin doesn’t look _overly_ pleased, but hands Bilbo the parchment the latter dropped when he fainted. “I’ll have to draw up yours, lass. I’ll have it done before we turn in for the night.”

“That will be fine, Master Balin. Thank you.” Ailväel gathers her dishes and Thorin’s, and heads into the kitchen. He does not fail to notice how she still favors her leg, and seems much more subdued – sad, even – compared to the woman he met on the road.

Dwalin wastes no time in leaning towards Gandalf, knuckles braced on the table. “That woman will be the death o’ everyone in this company, wizard. Mark my words.”

“I understand you are displeased,” Gandalf says. “But I was quite right in saying that the very fact she has not killed any of you speaks a great deal as to whether or not it is her aim to do so. As ludicrous as it may seem, she can be trusted. If you do not believe me now, she will prove herself in time.”

Dwalin does not believe Gandalf – that much is painfully obvious. But Thorin _wants_ to believe him, and that _…_

That is simply frightening.

He sighs as he pushes to his feet, following the others as they rise and move to the parlor. “I do not like this, Gandalf. But I do not see any other way. If she is our enemy, I would prefer to keep a close eye on her. If she is an ally, then it will be as you say, and she will earn our trust.”

Gandalf hums, peering intently at Thorin. “I am glad you’ve seen sense. Now if you don’t mind, I will be in the garden.”

The wizard stumps away, pulling the green door shut behind him. Dwalin looks more upset than Thorin has seen him in years.

“Did she appear to know ‘em?”

Thorin frowns. “What?”

“The hires what attacked you on the road. Did she seem to know ‘em?”

“No. She was a stranger to them.”

“You’re certain?” Dwalin persists.

Thorin claps a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “Aye, I’m certain. She is odd, and I do not like it any more than you do, but whoever hired her wasn’t in league with those fools.”

Dwalin nods, appeased for the moment, and looks around to make sure no one is listening – the others are clustering around the fire, lighting their pipes and teasing the hobbit good-naturedly, and even Balin is sitting off to the side, shaking his head fondly at the youth on display.

“Is she truly an able fighter?” Dwalin doesn’t look skeptical, only curious.

Thorin nods. “Aye. I’d be thrice dead if not for her. Whatever she is, Dwalin – she is highly skilled at it.”

Dwalin grunts. “Makes me nervous.”

“Me as well,” Thorin admits. He glances out the window, somehow unsurprised to see her on the bench out in the garden, puffing on a pipe alongside the wizard.

“Come, Uncle!” Kíli drags his attention back indoors, one arm wrapped around their host. “Bilbo’s never heard a dwarvish song before!”

He does not really feel like singing, but acquiesces all the same. He leads them in the song of their homeland, and even the flames seem to dance less merrily on the hearth, out of reverence and awe of what his people have lost.

He wonders, as the voices of his kin join his own, if one day this song will be sung in his fathers’ halls, in celebration rather than in sorrow.

One can only hope.

/

Gandalf is unusually fond of the Shire; he has been for as long as Ailväel has known him. She remembers how he would come to the fortress of Nardorahl in the winter months, staying for the Yule feasts, and he would tell stories of a quiet land far away. A land of green and sunshine and bright flowers, of growing things and a peaceful, quiet people.

As a child, she believed such a place was only imaginary, or so far away that only the likes of a wizard could ever hope to see it.

Now, having slipped out the kitchen door to stand in Bilbo’s garden, she wonders at how it feels so very far from home, and yet not far away at all.

Her first foray into the Shire was before she had even turned thirty. It was autumn, and she was transfixed by the harvest that these hobbits seemed to consider below expectations, but appeared quite full by her judgment.

It wasn’t until the first snowstorm hit that she realized how subpar the crops really had been, considering the eating habits of Shirelings; within weeks there was talk of rations. The Brandywine froze over before Yule, and that was when the real trouble started.

Wolves from the North Downs had been forced to search farther and wider for food, for the winter was not kind to any creature. The river of solid ice proved an easy crossing for them. She still remembers the night the beasts first came into the Shire, and how close the snapping jaws had come to a fleeing mother and child, before one of Ailväel’s arrows had pierced its eye.

She is not so arrogant to believe that the Shire owes her a great debt; the Fell Winter remains one of the hobbits’ darkest times, and she merely did her part to make it slightly more bearable. A fair number of their people died, but all from sickness, cold or hunger. The wolves took no one that winter, and when spring came again and the Brandywine gurgled to life once more, Ailväel quietly went on her way, content to know she spared these people some tragedy, if not all of it.

(That alone had been enough – enough respite from her nightmares, enough to make her listen to Gandalf and enough to convince her that she was still needed.)

Still, it is clear that the Shire has come far in the years since that winter, and it gives her an enormous amount of satisfaction. Lush and green, the night air thick with the scent of clover and the late summer wheat – it is a peaceful place, one that she always enjoys visiting despite the fact that its inhabitants always peer at her with suspicion.

It is a far more enjoyable place to visit than Ered Luin, though perhaps that is due to her reasons for always being sent to the mountains.

She was not surprised earlier to find that Oakenshield is even more foul-tempered in person than he appeared from a distance; his nephews are also exactly as she pegged them seven months ago when she followed their caravan to the markets of Lond Daer. They are excitable, mischievous, and so eagerly desperate to please their uncle that it reminds her painfully of herself, all those years ago when her _nadad_ first pressed a dagger into her hand.

(Ailväel has often found it quite ridiculous, in the time since then, how much a single orc raid and one lucky throw has changed the course of her life.)

Once she has tired of the view from behind the smial, she finds Tharkûn in the front garden, puffing smoke rings into the balmy evening.

“I like the burglar,” she tells him, fixing her own pipe as she settles beside him on the bench.

“He has not always been so…” Gandalf waves his hand in search of the appropriate word.

“Fussy?” She smiles. She has been looking forward to a good smoke all evening; she’s spent the better part of the last two months practicing a new trick with concentric smoke rings.

Gandalf chuckles. “Fussy. Yes, I suppose that is a fitting description for him. He used to be the most inquisitive child west of Bree, always looking for excitement.”

“Hobbits are not like that by nature,” Ailväel reminds him, letting out a practice ring or two.

“His mother was.” There is a note of sadness in his voice.

She does not really know what to say, since she never knew the woman. But Gandalf seems determined not to dwell on melancholy thoughts, and adjusts his robes as he does the conversation.

“I agree with your decision to make Thorin and his nephews your priority.” A smoky butterfly flits into the night. “But I would ask that you keep an eye on Bilbo as well. Especially whenever I am unable to journey with the company.”

“I will do what I can,” she promises. “Though I doubt Oakenshield will thank me for it. You are lucky he was willing to trust your judgment regarding hobbits.”

“Oh, Bilbo will prove his worth,” the wizard waves away her concern. “I do not doubt it. Perhaps you should worry more about their response to _you_.”

She snorts. “I do not need to worry; I am well practiced in the art of being charming and courteous towards even the rudest dwarves.”

Gandalf pauses, as though he is considering how to soften the truth. “You may very well receive further training in that regard on this venture. They…are not very fond of you, my dear.” He glances sideways at her. “Thorin especially.”

She shrugs. “We expected as much. I would have been almost disappointed if they had accepted me so soon.”

“Hm.” He exhales; two perfect, interlocked rings float against the backdrop of inky sky littered with stars. “They will not be kind. They will see to it that you are miserable and isolated.”

She laughs bitterly. “Tharkûn, have you forgotten my childhood? ‘ _Adad_ was considered all but a heretic for how he took me in. Even now, after everything I have done for them, I am nothing more than an outsider.”

Gandalf purses his lips; she sighs, regretting her bluntness. He has long since made clear his opinion on how she was and is received in the Iron Hills. But he hums again, apparently setting aside his old objections for the moment.

“Do you think he suspects?”

His voice is quiet, softer than the smoke rings in the air.

“I don’t think so. But I have never met a more accomplished liar in all of Arda.” Ailväel shrugs. “We have plans in place, should he realize I am not following his orders to see Thorin and his nephews dead.”

“We have time,” Gandalf assures her. “You were told to let them live until the dragon is defeated.”

Not much comforted, Ailväel merely hums in acknowledgment of his words.

Gandalf turns to face her properly. “I know you are determined to see this through,” he tells her, still speaking quietly. “But none would blame you if you decided it was too great a burden. _I_ certainly would not.”

“I cannot shirk from this.” She shakes her head. “Had I not accepted my orders, there would be a dwarf in my place from the Iron Hills who had every intention of obeying them.”

Gandalf says nothing for a moment or two, before lowering his voice even more. Pipe smoke, without his concentration on what shape it takes, obscures the view of the Shire as it clouds around them.

“You are placing yourself in an impossible position, Ailväel. Your father will likely be forced to banish you, should your plan succeed. Your brother will at the very best despise you. And if you should fail – “

“Then hopefully I will at least manage to warn Thorin in time.” She sets her jaw, and gazes out over the Shire, and repeats, “I will not shirk from this, Gandalf. His greed has been allowed to fester for too long. And I do not know if my _nadad_ even sees, or if he is of the same mind.”

She pauses to swallow the nausea, brought on by the thought of her brother being in league with traitors. Gandalf’s voice is a welcome distraction.

“Perhaps he could be reasoned with. Thorin could make him a prominent member of his council in Erebor, what with his position in Nardorahl.”

“You do not understand.” She sighs. “This greed within him…it will not be satisfied with anything less than the throne. He does not think Oakenshield is unfit; he is simply hungry for power, and wants the wealth of Erebor for himself to squander. And with him wearing the crown, no dwarf would be safe. I cannot allow him to usurp the rightful king.” She takes a shaky breath. “No matter how my heart might break in stopping him.”

Gandalf only hums again, puffing his pipe before setting a gentle hand on Ailväel’s shoulder as they listen, through the open parlor window, to the dwarves of Erebor sing the hymn of their homeland, voices rich with a longing that she knows all too well.

She has cast her lot in with them, to help them reclaim a home in which she will never be welcome. But it is either this, or flee from her shadow for the rest of her days, knowing that she could have spared him, and did nothing. Thorin Oakenshield is rude, and proud, and perhaps the most stubborn son of stone to ever walk Middle Earth. But he loves his people, his kin, and he longs for them to have better than a trading outpost in the Blue Mountains.

Though it will likely end in her dead in either body or in spirit, she must help him take what is rightfully his.

\----

Come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/not-so-weary-pilgrim)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE!!!!!
> 
> Hello! Thank you for coming back for the next bit. I hope you’re enjoying this. Any construction criticism is highly welcome.
> 
> There is a scene of physical assault in this chapter. If that is not something you’d like to read, that section is marked off by a row of multiple asterisks (*******). Simply skip down until you see those asterisks again and carry on. Just so you don’t miss anything, a trigger-free synopsis of that scene will be at the end of the chapter, after the Khuzdul definitions. 
> 
> ALSO, there is a scene where a character is assaulted sexually but it happens “off screen” and it is only discussed in conversation afterwards. I’ve marked that bit the same way. Please proceed with caution, and feel welcome to let me know what triggers I need to give you all a notice on. I will gladly provide whatever you need to help you read safely.
> 
> Onward!

 

/

Ailväel rises early the next morning, having spent the night on the floor across the threshold.

Before seeking her rest last night, she made certain the kitchen and side doors were both latched firmly, though she rigged up some impromptu booby traps with metal buckets and precariously perched cutlery (while the mercenaries from Bree were hardly intelligent, she knows it is dangerous to underestimate any enemy).

Bilbo had given her some curious glances, and she had explained that she didn’t want any of his neighbors or cousins coming in for a surprise visit for breakfast – dwarves, particularly armed ones, don’t take kindly to be caught unawares. He’d gone quite wide-eyed, nodded and fetched her another couple of buckets.

Ailväel is pleased to find the rest of the company still asleep, or at least not present when she enters the kitchen. Bilbo is there, muttering frantically at a piece of parchment and scratching his forehead with a quill.

“Good morning,” she says, and smiles when he jumps.

“Oh – Miss Ailväel. Good morning.” He bustles around to the hearth. “Tea?”

“Thank you.” She accepts the cup gratefully, amused when he goes back to his list and muttering. She waits a moment or two before gently prompting, “Can I help you, Bilbo?”

“Oh, well.” He looks down sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m quite inexperienced with adventures. I’ve no idea what to pack.”

“Ah.” She peers down at his list. “Well, you’ve got a good start. An extra change or two of clothes – comfortable, sturdy ones, mind, nothing you’d wear to go calling on those Sackville-Baggins folk.”

Mirth and surprise mingle on his face. “How do you know of the Sackville-Baggins?”

“This is not my first time into the Shire,” she says cheerfully. “And you hobbits are _terrible_ gossips. I am almost surprised the king of Rohan has not heard of them already.”

Bilbo laughs delightedly, and proceeds to tell her of all the times he has caught his cousin’s wife with the silver stuffed into her pockets. Ailväel enjoys the stories immensely – this creature has every right to be suspicious of her, to be wary and closed off.

And yet here she is, being fed tea and toast for breakfast, along with a poached egg (from the three dozen he apparently ran down to market at first light – after disassembling her alarm buckets – to buy so he can feed the dwarves once more) while he chatters on about neighbors and irritating relatives.

Eventually, though, their conversation returns to practical matters. “You might also wish for some salve or ointment,” she says. “Hobbits have hardy feet, but yours have not faced the like of river crossings and mountain paths before.”

Bilbo nods, wide-eyed, and adds it onto his list.

“Soap and a comb, for the rare times we’ll have the chance for a bath. Oh, and something to pass the time in the evenings, though I wouldn’t recommend a book as it could get all manner of rain or muck on it. Have you got a knife of some sort?”

“Well – it’s my father’s pocket knife. Rather useless in a fight, I’m afraid.” He grimaces apologetically, cheeks a burnished red, and Ailväel wants nothing more than to whack Dwalin in the head with a chair; granted, the phrase _lost cause_ hit a sore spot for her and he could not have known that. But to insinuate that it is Bilbo’s fault that he has never had to fight –!

She drums her fingers on the table and reminds herself that she is not on this quest to teach anyone manners, not even the guardsman who could rival her ‘ _adad_ for all his grumpiness.

“Well, we shall figure out what you can use as a weapon later. For now, I would still bring it along. A pocket knife can be dead useful in a lot more than a fight.”

She looks over his list once again, and nods approvingly. “I think this will serve you well, Bilbo. Do you need assistance with anything?”

“Oh no, thank you. I’ll wait to rummage up breakfast for the others and then I’ll pack.”

Ailväel hears someone stirring in the back of the smial, though the footsteps are not heavy enough to be Oakenshield or his surly nursemaid. “Master Oakenshield will likely wish to leave as soon as the last dish is dried. I’ll see to breakfast; you go get your affairs settled. Have you got someone to watch the house?”

“I’ve been to see my gardener, Master Gamgee. He’ll make sure to air it out and keep everything in order while I’m gone. And I’ve asked him to let my nephew Drogo and his lass Primula stay here once they get married in a couple of months. They’ll be quite happy here, I’m sure.”

“Very good,” she nods, and gets up to gently shoo Bilbo from his own kitchen. “Away with you, you’ve got a lot to do before we leave.”

He pats her kindly on the shoulder in thanks, and scurries away. Ailväel finds a clean frying pan and the basket of eggs from the market, along with some of the last tomatoes and two loaves of light bread.

There is only one small crock of butter left in the cellar, but it would likely spoil before Bilbo’s nephew moves in and so she does not feel guilty when she scoops some into the hot skillet for eggs and puts the rest on the table for the toast.

“Good morning.”

She smiles over her shoulder at Fíli and Kíli, both sleep-rumpled in a way that only emphasizes their youth, deep voices aside.

“Morning, lads. Best fill your bellies before we leave.”

Cooking is not her trade, but there are only so many ways one can botch toast and eggs. In short order the boys each have a full plate of hot food, and a full cup of hot tea. She makes sure the cream and sugar are within reach, as well as that wonderful blackberry jam she sampled last night, and turns back to the stove to get more eggs cooking so the next dwarves up and about won’t have to wait.

Her timing is near perfect; the brothers Ur amble into the kitchen and greet her cheerily (well, Bofur does anyway – Bifur nods and mutters a standard Khuzdul greeting, and stares when she responds in kind. Bombur grunts around a truly enormous mouthful of toast, but it sounds friendly enough even with all the crumbs).

The rest of the company trickles in, their reactions to her varying from downright suspicious to warily pleasant. She keeps serving the eggs and tea, not attempting any conversation since most of them seem slightly wooly between the ears from their ale the night before.

At least, until Oakenshield appears.

Ailväel fights a smile at how obviously Fíli and Kíli sit up straighter, plaster cheerful grins on their faces, and look raring to get started on their journey. It is an endearing comparison to the sleepy, mussed-hair lads of five minutes ago.

“You cook as well?” Thorin scowls at her, as though asking how she dares to feed anyone.

“Nothing fit for a king’s table,” she says evenly, determined not to begin the morning by stooping to his childish level but unable to resist giving him a bit of cheek. “But it is edible, and filling.”

“Shouldn’ our host be the one servin’?”

Ailväel has to admit to using a tone that is decidedly frostier when she addresses Dwalin.

“He’s busy getting his things packed and affairs settled. He had absolutely no notice at all of this business until last night, and he has already been to the market this morning so all of you could eat before we depart.” More than a few sheepish looks surround the table.

Dwalin narrows his eyes at her, and she narrows hers right back at him. “I daresay he has outdone his duty as our _host_ , wouldn’t you agree, Master Dwalin?”

There is a moment of silence; young Kíli looks almost afraid to chew, his eyes glancing back and forth nervously between her and his mentor.

In the end, Dwalin grunts in reply, and that is that.

Eventually Bilbo bustles back into the kitchen, dressed quite sensibly for all of hobbits’ love of brightly colored clothes. He stops short when he sees them all gathered.

“Er – good morning.”

Few of the dwarves respond, though most of them are tending to their breakfasts in earnest; now that Thorin has arrived that means they will be leaving soon.

Once they have all been served, Ailväel washes the skillets and platters and puts them away before she goes to ready her own things. As she leaves the kitchen, Balin politely clears his throat.

“You were engaged with Gandalf last evening, lass, so I just left your contract in the parlor.”

She stifles a sigh at dwarves and their contracts. After all the times she knows Men have cheated them for honest work, she can hardly blame them.

“I shall have it signed and deliver it to you before we leave,” she promises. “Speaking of Gandalf, he asked me to tell you all that he will meet us at the Buckleberry ferry.”

The old dwarf nods, but his manners do nothing to cool the glare coming from his brother – nor, for that matter, the one coming from their leader.

Still, she expected it, so there is hardly any use in bemoaning it. She thanks Bilbo for the meal and heads into the parlor, which is already bright with the morning sunshine. The contract is on the table that sits before the big round window. She does not read it thoroughly, only enough to make sure that they have excluded any and all mentions of payment or shares of treasure, and scrawls her name at the bottom.

As she neatly folds the parchment back again, she turns to survey the room. It is a pleasant dwelling, one of the finest this side of the Misty Mountains, and certainly in all the Shire. Bilbo will surely miss it, especially since she knows hobbits to be sentimental creatures, and his father or grandfather likely had a hand in its construction.

Her eyes drift above the mantel; she gasps as the contract drops from her numb fingers to land on the carpet rug.

There are two framed portraits hanging above the fireplace, and the likeness in the hobbit man’s pleasant (if just a smidge fussy) expression is all the explanation she needs to know it is the late Mr. Baggins Senior.

Which means the hobbit lady in the opposite portrait…

The late Mrs. Baggins has a coy, proper smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. She can see her son in the snapping twinkle of her eyes, though Bilbo resembles his father more. But this demure lady in the picture is not how Ailväel remembers her.

_The hobbit lady’s feet slipped on hard-packed snow, and Ailväel was not sure if the startled cry came from her or the child in her arms. Howls seemed to be all around, coming from behind every tree; Ailväel was doing her best to keep up with the fleeing mother, but she knew the wolves would overrun them._

_She had scarcely had the thought than a pair of snapping jowls bounded from behind an elm tree, and this time it was the hobbit lady who screamed. The fauntling buried its face in her chest, and Ailväel swore as her own feet slipped on the ice._

_The wolf paced, savoring the hunt before devouring its prey, and its arrogance gave Ailväel the time she needed to draw and loose an arrow. The blood bouncing off the snow wrenched another cry from the woman’s lips, but she whirled around and Ailväel was struck with how big her child’s eyes were, peeking around his mother’s collar._

_“Who are you?”_

_Ailväel studied her, this tiny woman with the mahogany curls and enormous brown eyes and a spine of such iron that would put to shame many a dwarf._

_“To your hobbit hole, madam. Those beasts shall not prey upon you and your kin this night.”_

In the kitchen, someone drops a utensil in the sink; the clatter startles her back to the present and she hastily picks the contract up off the floor, lest someone catch her off guard.

She glances at the door that leads back towards the kitchen, and sighs.

By Mahal’s beard, why does her job have to complicate _everything?_

/

By the time they set out, it is midmorning and Thorin’s temper is hanging by tattered threads.

Perhaps it would be fair to admit that his mood is more to blame on the little and poor sleep he had the night before, but it is easier to say that Ailväel is the cause for his snapping remarks and huffs of disapproval that escape him no matter what anyone else has done.

Regardless of whose fault it is, even Fíli and Kíli are giving him a wide berth as they mount up on ponies at the ford. The hobbit makes a bit of a fuss, claiming to be able to keep up on foot, but Ailväel quietly shows him how to mount and stay in the saddle, and nothing more is said about the matter.

Thorin is even more irritated at how impressed he wants to be, seeing how well she handles Bilbo before he can cause a ruckus, as well as how adept she is at calming the ponies as the barge floats and wobbles across the river. She puts her mouth next to their ears, murmuring something too quietly for anyone else to make out, but it results in content nickers and no stomping hooves.

The lack of skittish animals is almost enough to make him forgive her, but then he catches her triumphant smirk, gleaming at him as she perches expertly in her own saddle. Her dark eyes twinkle even in the bright sunshine, daring him: _You fool, you thought I’d be as inexperienced as the burglar_. He scowls before leading his pony away from the river.

Gandalf’s amused chuckle only makes it all worse. The wizard is absolutely beside himself that his plan to bring not one but two unwelcome parties along on this quest has succeeded, and is therefore in irritatingly high spirits.

The road out of the Shire is just as peaceful and serene as he expected, all green and lush and twittering with woodland creatures. The clear skies mean the sun beats down, too hot on his head, but he discards the notion of braiding it back. There is not much in the way of privacy here, unless he wants to stop the company and go around a tree. Which would be easy, as there are a wealth of trees – big, old ones that indicate undisturbed years of growth.

There were trees just like that, all around the Mountain on the road to Dale. He tries not to feel bitter about it.

There are also a fair number of orchards they pass, and Ailväel shocks them all when she heels her mount and disappears into one without warning.

Thorin very nearly shouts or goes after her, but his stubborn pride checks him. They continue on, and she rejoins them not ten minutes later, a bulging sack hanging from the saddle horn of her pony.

“Ten bits for the lot, Master Baggins. Fair enough, you think?” She cheerfully sets about distributing the shiny red apples.

Bilbo nods. “Oh yes, I think that’s quite reasonable. Those are Farmer Tempkin’s early crop, some of the Shire’s best. Of course, his later ones are better for pies.”

Thorin thinks he hears a whimper of longing from Bombur, but it is hard to tell over the cacophony of crunching apples. Only he, Dwalin and Balin have refused their offered gifts. The rest of them are thanking her profusely around bites of sticky fruit – even, he notices with annoyance, his own nephews. Traitors.

“And how, pray tell, did ya have time to haggle wit’ a gardener over the price o’ his goods?” Dwalin’s grumble causes the crunching and cheerful spirits to vanish like a puff of wind. But Ailväel’s smile does not waver as she ties the sack with the remaining fruit around her saddle horn.

“I did not haggle, Master Dwalin. I left the coins on the fencepost at the main gate. He will notice he’s got some missing, and I am not without honor.”

The company resume their snacking and lighthearted conversation; Gandalf chuckles, which surprises Thorin enough that he does not even frown when Ailväel nudges her pony into a swift trot, passing him and Dwalin to ride next to the wizard. She hands him an apple and says something that turns his chuckle into an outright guffaw.

Dwalin snorts.

“Takin’ the time to go apple pickin’.”

Thorin hums, even as he tries to ignore the late apple blossom petals that have caught in Ailväel’s braid of black hair. She has looped her reins around the saddle horn as well, guiding her pony with only her legs. The animal trots amicably along while she uses one of her daggers to carve slices out of her apple.

He does not realize he is staring until she turns around and catches him. There is apple juice running down her chin, her mouth is red and twisted in wry amusement as one black brow arches in a silent question. He congratulates himself on not braiding his hair back after all, because now she cannot see how red his ears have turned in a few short moments. He only just manages to swallow his huff when she tugs her pony back to ride beside him again.

“Something wrong, Master Oakenshield?”

He clenches his jaw. “No.”

“Hm.” She does not believe him, that much is obvious, but she leans forward to offer her pony a slice of apple, seeming unconcerned. “We will reach Bree in about a week, I believe. Do we have any further purchases to make beyond replenishing our supplies?”

Annoyed at how sensible she is, how easy it would be to discuss such matters with her, Thorin tenses his already set jaw. “Balin is overseeing those affairs. The rest of the company will purchase whatever things they themselves need. We will stay in town for a night.”

She keeps slicing away at her apple, the juice now running down her forearms. “Do you think it wise to tarry there?”

He glances over sharply. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “Those men followed you from the Prancing Pony, did they not? Surely they are not the only ones of their kind; Bree is a known gathering place of such refuse.”

Thorin sighs. “You do not rest, do you?”

“There will be time enough for rest, once the Mountain is free of that slug.”

The hard edge to her voice surprises him.

“What grudge do you hold against Smaug?”

She blinks. “…does one _need_ a grudge to wish a dragon dead? I had no kin in Erebor or Dale, but I have been to see the ruins. Such death and destruction can only be the work of an evil creature.”

A pretty sentiment – hating Smaug simply because he is evil – but something in the middle sticks out to him like a tree stump in a field.

“You have been to the Mountain?”

Ailväel nods, slightly subdued. “Aye. It was my first mission for Lord Dáin; I admit I was young and curious. I regretted going at the time, for I had never seen such sorrow and loss, though it was only the aftermath. But looking back I am glad I did. I would be much more foolish otherwise.”

Mahal help him, he _cannot_ get his feet under him when it comes to this woman. Every sentence she utters is genuine and true; if he closed his eyes he would expect to see a dwarf sitting in her place when he opened them again. She speaks of the destruction as though it had been her people that had bled and died under the Mountain, and he wonders why it does not infuriate him.

Something else pricks at him, though, and he gladly seizes the opportunity for a change in topic.

“Your… _mission_ for Lord Dáin?”

She nods, slightly less enthusiastic than usual. “I am sure you have guessed by now that I have not followed my family’s trade of leathersmithing.”

He cannot hide his amusement at her wry tone, no matter how annoyed he is. A snort escapes him, and Dwalin scowls darkly, but Thorin shrugs.

“It had occurred to me as a possibility. And it is little wonder my cousin has never spoken of you. A Woman who spies for Dwarves is a very great asset, so long as your loyalties are unquestionable.” He glances sideways at her.

To her credit, she does not puff up, insulted at the slight barb. “I could not betray them any more than you could betray your own kin,” she says quietly, tossing her apple core to the wayside. “I am still considered an outsider by many in the Iron Hills, but I call them my people nonetheless.”

Well, _that_ is the first indication he has had that someone besides himself, Balin or Dwalin does not like her. Carefully, he keeps his eyes on the path ahead.

“Oh? I thought Gandalf said Dáin approved your adoption?”

“Aye, he did. But it was to great controversy. And in truth he was never against the idea. It was his council that protested the most.”

Thorin has personally met the council of the Iron Hills, and he is hardly surprised. “I’ve known orcs that were more agreeable than that lot,” he growls.

Ailväel gives her own snort of amusement, while licking her fingers clean of apple juice. “Aye, that is something like what my _‘adad_ said. But he stood his ground, and apparently did not give two bits whether or not they approved of my education and upbringing as a dwarf. When I am feeling particularly obnoxious, I speak Khuzdul where I know they will overhear me. It is a childish indulgence I am afraid I have never outgrown.”

For some reason, that reminds him of Frerin, and so his mouth quirks before he can stop it. Despite the fact that she is currently cleaning her dagger of apple juice now, she must see it and feel encouraged, for she continues:

“Were I a better artist, I would have done a portrait of the worst one of the lot, right after I called him _faslmagân u Mebelkhags._ ”

Dwalin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like he is choking on spit, but Thorin ignores him in favor of turning an incredulous look on Ailväel. “How old were you?”

She grins. “Eighteen.”

A toddler in dwarf years, yet on the cusp of womanhood by her own right. He imagines it would have felt like being insulted by one’s younger sister and mother all at once.

He clears his throat to hide his own desire to laugh.

“Oi, lass!” Bofur calls her, and with a polite nod to him and Dwalin, Ailväel puts away her knife and tugs her pony back to ride beside the brothers Ur.

“What do you think?” Thorin quietly asks Dwalin, all too aware of how their voices carry.

Dwalin grunts in consideration. “She’s got her story worked out, that’s for certain. Still, she’ll get tangled in the lies eventually, make no mistake. And to have seen what she’s claimed to – she’s too young. Seems farfetched.”

Thorin nods slowly, trying to imagine a smaller, younger version of Ailväel calling a stuffy, arrogant dwarf lord a pair of elf’s testicles and then running off to practice throwing her knives.

For all that he does not trust her, it certainly makes an amusing picture.

/

True to her predictions, they reach Bree early afternoon eight days later. The town looks no less dirty and questionable even in the bright sunshine; if anything the smells are worse from the heat. The Prancing Pony is not as busy as it might be in the evenings, and so they obtain rooms for the company – with Gandalf and Ailväel each getting their own – with little fuss.

The rest of the day is spent restocking their supplies; each of them have a role in this. Bombur makes sure they have enough provisions and Óin takes care of bandages and herbs. Fíli and Kíli are charged with the ponies, and for a moment Thorin considers dismissing Ailväel. But then he remembers her claim of her _family’s_ trade, and smirks.

“Woman,” he calls. He sees a flash of annoyance as she lifts an eyebrow.

“I would prefer to be addressed by my name.”

He stares. He knew she had something of a sharp tongue, her wit at Bag End proved as much. But there is nothing amused in her expression, and he knows he has hit a nerve. Were it any other circumstance, any other woman in all of Middle Earth, he would grumpily apologize and move on. But this woman, and these circumstances, already have him even grumpier than usual. He takes a step in her direction – an action that she mirrors, much to Dwalin’s displeasure, until they are toe to toe.

“And I would prefer you – “

“I don’t give a pile of warg dung what you prefer,” she snaps. She folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin to scowl directly into his face. “I am not on this quest to make you or anyone else happy by acquiescing to your _preferences_. If you’ve got a job for me, call my name and hand it over as grumpily and arrogantly as you please, it will not matter to me. But do not call me _woman_ , ever again.”

For a moment, no one dares to breathe. He can see Fíli and Kíli, frozen mid step as though they are afraid to look away and miss witnessing him commit murder.

He clenches his jaw, but knows that unless he wants to set a poor example for his nephews…

He sighs.

“Your pardon.” He can practically _hear_ Dwalin’s confused glower in his direction. “Miss Ailväel. Our ponies’ tack and gear will need tending on our journey. See that we have the necessary tools.”

She looks mildly shocked at how easily he cowed, but she nods. “Certainly.” And with that, she disappears, striding confidently in the direction of the craftsmen’s section of town.

“What was tha’?” Dwalin demands.

Thorin purses his lips; he does not want to admit the truth, which is that any self-respecting woman in her position would behave exactly as Ailväel did in the face of such treatment from a churlish, unpleasant man. So instead he shrugs.

“I’d rather save the screaming rows until we are well and far away from any settlements. We would draw too much attention here.”

Thankfully Dwalin buys it, and says nothing more on the subject until the company reconvenes at the inn at sundown.

************************

By now, the tavern is roaring with patrons, the bar packed and the room uncomfortably warm. They unload their purchases and outer layers of clothing (though not their weapons) in their rooms upstairs before going back down for supper. Ailväel is conspicuously absent, even after they have secured a table in the corner, up against the wall.

Thorin notes that nobody exactly reserves a seat for her, but rather they leave more than enough room to crowd together if need be.

As it happens, she arrives just before the barmaid does; she requests the same fare as the rest of them, and ignores the scandalized, disapproving look of the serving girl as she drapes herself into her seat. The side of the table that is against the wall is fitted with a bench rather than chairs, and she ends up rather scrunched on the end between Bifur and Dwalin, who is seated at the table’s head. Thorin sits across from her, and when she draws Bifur into a friendly conversation – entirely in Khuzdul – Thorin clenches his jaw so hard he nearly cracks a tooth.

Their food is delivered by two additional young women, who shoot Ailväel the same frown as their colleague even as they hand her a bowl of stew and mug of ale. To her credit, Ailväel does not bristle, instead politely thanking them and settling in to enjoy her meal.

One of the serving girls pauses in returning to the kitchens, and opens her mouth. The other puts a restraining hand on her arm, and then they both spot Thorin giving them a glare fierce enough to crack marble. They jump and scurry away, and Thorin thinks he sees the ghost of a smirk flitting at the corners of Ailväel’s mouth as he turns back to his food.

He is no stranger to the bizarre customs of Men; he knows very well what objections any other member of her race would have against Ailväel accompanying a group of males – male _dwarves_ , no less – without a chaperone.

For a moment, he pities the poor soul who would be theoretically charged with this woman’s reputation. Throwing daggers and keeping pace with Bofur’s mugs of ale are not exactly common practices for Women.

But she has never really seemed like a Woman, he admits. At the moment she is laughing at one of Bifur’s stories about the toys he commissioned in Ered Luin; Thorin watches as she eats with both elbows on the table, slurping her food and letting ale trickle down her chin unconcernedly.

She eats like a dwarf. Loud (though not as loud as Kíli), and messy, enjoying her meal wholeheartedly despite the fact that most of her dinner companions are at best marginally accepting of her.

Thorin keeps puzzling over this until he realizes it is making his head ache, between his eyebrows from all the frowning. He shelves the matter to ponder over later, and that is why he is paying attention when a man seated nearby calls for Ailväel’s attention.

“Oi, girlie, they can’t be payin’ you enough to keep all o’ them warm at once!”

She hears them, he can tell by the way the lines around her mouth tighten ever so slightly. But she does not respond, instead turning the opposite direction to face Fíli completely as she listens to his story.

The others hear him as well, as evidenced by the uncomfortable shifting in seats and flicking of gazes between the man and Ailväel.

Her tactic does not work, which does not surprise Thorin and probably does not surprise her either. The man shouts louder, his voice carrying until half the room is watching, and still Ailväel keeps her back to him.

This is clearly a man unaccustomed to being ignored, because he shoves to his feet with an irritated huff and stomps his way over to stand at Ailväel’s shoulder. She is seated on the end of the bench, which Thorin belatedly realizes likely makes her feel cornered.

The man taps her roughly on the shoulder. That alone is nearly enough to make Thorin throw his two bits in. But he holds his peace; Ailväel’s legs are free of any blades, but there are still the two at her belt and whichever ones are secreted away beneath her tunic.

(And even if she is unarmed, he sincerely doubts that would make her any less dangerous.)

Ailväel finally turns to face her admirer, somehow managing to look annoyed, polite, and murderous all at once.

“Yes?”

The man scowls and gestures to the table of dwarves. “How come you’re with this lot?”

She frowns, politely puzzled, and glances around at them. “What do you mean?”

“With…with dwarves. Ain’t anyone payin’ better than them?”

The implication is not lost on anyone – except perhaps Ori – but Ailväel tilts her head, still playing the role and ignoring the increasingly angry glares and mutterings of the company.

“You think I am not being compensated for my services?”

The man scoffs. “They’re hardly more’n beggars. What coin do they have to pay ya with, lass?”

“Who said coin was the only acceptable payment?” Ailväel says with a smooth lift of one brow, adding a giggle as she sips her ale.

From down the table comes the unmistakable sound of Dori inhaling wine up his nose. Thorin, for once, can sympathize; he would choke on his own tongue, were his mouth not hanging open like a fish.

The man stutters, and loses his nerve. Thorin feels relieved and mostly shocked when he walks away, and Ailväel watches him go with a studied frown. When the man reseats himself she seems satisfied, and turns back to hear the ending of Fíli’s story.

That, of course, is when the brute’s _charming_ friend decides to put his oar in.

There is the heavy scrape of a chair, several thudding footsteps, and Thorin glances up long enough to notice that this man looks considerably angrier than the first.

The man stops, looming over Ailväel’s shoulder, and clears his throat loud enough for the horses in the barn outside to likely think it was thunder.

Ailväel, who apparently was trying to ignore this man as well, closes her eyes as though in prayer.

Thorin is not sure, but he thinks he hears her mutter something like “ _I hate men_ ,” before she turns to face the newcomer.

The man, big and ugly with food stuck in his teeth, sneers. “Ya can’t expect us to believe that those midgets can actually satisfy a lass like you.” At the word _you_ , his eyes trail lecherously over Ailväel’s form, and Thorin sees the first spark of anger seep through her façade.

And yet she still will not surrender, quickly schooling her features back into that flirtatious smirk.

“The fact that they are short does not mean they are small,” she says. Thorin is _positive_ her movement of resting her elbows on the table and arching her back is deliberate. “I would even say height for… _size_ is a more than a worthwhile trade, in my own experience.”

This time, it is her eyes that wander down and up again, her nose wrinkling daintily as though recalling an unpleasant memory.

The man goes puce, veins throbbing in his neck, and at first seems unable to do anything but bluster. But then Ailväel _winks at him_ and turns again to face the company, and he erupts.

Thorin sees his arm dart forward, and deliberately makes himself remain still. Dwalin, surprisingly, follows his lead, and everyone in the room stares when the man’s hand closes around Ailväel’s braid and yanks her clean out of her chair, throwing her bodily against the wall where he holds her several inches off the ground by her throat.

There is a moment when Thorin’s hand closes around the hilt of his sword; everyone at his table is doing the same. Even Dwalin is on his feet – as much as he dislikes the woman, is not the sort to turn a blind eye.

But then he notices the look on Ailväel’s face, sees the fury crackling like lightning in her eyes, and the hairs on his arms stand on end. He motions for his company to stand down, and they obey though they do not take their seats.

Ailväel grins, feral and wicked, just before her hands close around the man’s wrist and twist it sharply. There are several sickening crunches, and the man howls as he drops her back onto her feet. One of those feet flies up and catches him squarely in the groin, hard enough to make Dwalin wince.

The man is doubled over, moaning and pressing the hand that is not bent at an unnatural angle to his crotch, which makes it easy for Ailväel to grab a handful of his hair and yank him up to meet her eyes – and to see the dagger in her other hand, pointed at his throat.

“These dwarves have hired me as their personal guard and escort to the trading outposts of South Gondor. Speak to me, approach me, or attempt to touch me again, and I’ll leave you in bits and pieces for others to find along the trail from here to Umbar.”

The man trembles, swallows audibly, and stumbles away to his table when she releases him.

There is a moment of pounding silence, and then chatter resumes around the room. Ailväel sinks gracefully down into her seat, and nods at Bifur’s consoling pat on her shoulder.

“Fast draw you’ve got,” Dwalin grumbles.

Ailväel smiles. “Careful, Dwalin, or I shall start to think you are complimenting me.”

Dwalin huffs and mutters something probably very rude into his ale. Thorin observes Ailväel as the anger slowly melts from her eyes.

She is terrifying, he admits that freely. He still does not trust her, still does not really like her.

But there is a tension in her shoulders now, an uneasiness in how her fingers keep stroking the dagger at her waist even as she puts on a grin and laughs at his nephews’ jokes, all while keeping one eye trained on the two men until they leave the tavern.

As much as he dislikes her, he is filled with a deep and sudden (though not new) loathing for Men. Such behavior from a dwarf would be punishable by twenty lashes and a public shaving.

But here, other than the spectators that gathered around during the incident and dispersed afterwards, no one seemed to think anything was amiss. He finds himself glaring at the room in general, wondering how this race has survived if this is how they treat their _u’mâd_.

“Do not bother.”

Her quiet voice surprises him; the others have more or less returned to their good cheer, but Ailväel turns to face him and Dwalin a little more and Thorin sees the hard line of her shoulders clearer than ever.

“It is…barbaric.” The word does not do his feelings justice, but he cannot bring himself to say anything else; sarcasm and bickering are beyond him. Worst of all is that she was clearly enraged by the incident, but not unaccustomed to it. He wonders how many other inbred halfwits have caused a similar scene – particularly during her travels alone. His fist clenches around his mug.

“It is,” she agrees. “And were my ‘ _adad_ to hear of it, he would likely declare war on all of Middle Earth. It is something I learned to handle long ago.”

“Probably wouldn’t’ve grabbed your hair if you’d gone for the throat to begin with.” Dwalin glances at her, dislike mingling with detached concern.

“Probably,” Ailväel agrees, running her thumb down the grains of the table top. “But it is more satisfying to humiliate them. They go rather apoplectic when they discover that I won’t swoon at the sight of them.”

Thorin cannot hold back a derisive snort. “I did not realize bits of food stuck in teeth was considered attractive amongst Women.”

He is surprisingly relieved when some of the shadows pass from her eyes, replaced by amusement.

“It very well may be,” she shrugs. “But I have rather peculiar tastes for a Woman. Perhaps it _is_ me, after all.”

“Peculiar?” This from Dwalin, who seems like being impressed by her is bothering him far less than it once did.

She laughs. “Not to offend, but most Women prefer their bedfellows with far less hair. And apparently height is to be an admired trait.”

“And…you do not prefer the same?” Thorin asks before he can wonder how this topic came about.

“Definitely not.” Her voice is light, all traces of anger or melancholy gone, but it does not hide the way her eyes flick down to his chest and up again before riveting their gaze on her mug, a dark blush stealing up her cheeks.

He clears his throat, loudly enough to make Dwalin frown curiously at him.

************************

“Miss Ailväel, are you all right?” Kíli’s timing is, for once, perfect. And his worry is seconded by the looks the rest of the company are giving her.

At first she blinks in surprise, but quickly recovers and pats his arm. “Of course, Kíli. I’m not the one with a broken wrist.”

“Aye, but you’re the one who was hauled about like a sack of grain.” Glóin, to Thorin’s surprise, looks angrier than any of them.

But then, perhaps it should not be surprising. Glóin has regaled them all – _repeatedly_ – with stories of his wife, her beauty and charms. Dwarves as a people hold their women in high regard, and if there were an extreme of such a practice, Glóin would be the breathing definition of it.

Seeing a woman, regardless of her race, treated thus would infuriate any dwarf, exaggeratedly so with him.

“I am quite sure I am considerably heavier than a sack of grain,” Ailväel quips.

“Lass,” Balin interjects kindly. “There is no shame in admitting your discomfort over the incident. Just as there is no shame in you accompanying us without a chaperone. I assume that is the point of argument?”

The grin drops off her face like melted butter. She nods.

“Aye. All Women are apparently not to be trusted in a group of men who are not family, though why is anyone’s guess, as we do not evidently have carnal desires either.”

Bilbo coughs delicately, and Ailväel smiles.

“Apologies, Bilbo. I forgot about the decorum of hobbits.”

“No matter,” their burglar manages. “I’m certainly in the minority in that regard. Do dwarves not restrict sharing a bed for marriage, then?”

“Most o’ us don’ marry,” Bofur explains. “We’d surely be a dyin’ race if we were prudes.”

Bilbo seems fascinated. “What about children?”

“There are laws,” this from Ailväel, “about how the parents will share responsibility if they are unwed. And the children are given all the same rights as those born from marriage. Though taking a spouse is usually encouraged amongst the upper class, mostly due to ceremony and to ensure a child _will_ be born.”

“Ensure?” Bilbo frowns.

Ailväel pauses, and glances at Thorin as though to ask his permission. They are doing an admirable job thus far of sharing their culture without divulging any major secrets. Not to mention this is an excellent opportunity for him to assess just how well her web of lies holds. He gestures for her to continue.

“A child born from wedlock is almost always a happy accident,” she says, looking surprised at Thorin’s accommodation. “If a couple weds, it is presumed they will deliberately try to conceive, though they are not always successful.”

He is torn between annoyance at how impressed his nephews look at her knowledge of dwarven customs, and amusement at Dwalin’s glower regarding the same.

“Hobbits are encouraged to marry, though most tend to tumble quite a bit in their youth. It’s all kept hush hush, as though it’s only acceptable if it’s never spoken of. But if a couple conceives, they are required to marry before the child is born.” Bilbo, seeming to have recovered from his initial fear of them all, leans back in his chair and fusses with lighting his pipe.

“Required?” Balin – always the diplomat – leans forward eagerly, and Thorin knows that it is partly personal interest, and partly a wish to acquire a better understanding of Ered Luin’s closest trading partners.

“Oh yes. Though that’s really a rule for the child’s sake.”

“Do hobbits not view rearing a child as a responsibility not to be shirked?” Thorin frowns.

“Oh they do!” Bilbo hastens to explain. “It’s more to ensure that there won’t be any divisions amongst the different clans as to whom the child belongs. It also helps with the fauntling’s inheritance eventually, once the parents are deceased. Really it’s just a technicality.”

That is better, Thorin supposes. Better than the customs of Men appear to be, anyway. He squints around the room as he realizes he does not quite know what those customs are, actually, and asks Ailväel to elaborate.

She huffs. “Women are not allowed to bed anyone outside of marriage, but Men are allowed to romp with whomever they choose, with or without the lady’s consent. If she conceives out of wedlock – even if she is forced – she is cast out from her family and loses all prospects, while the man is more or less unaffected. There are occasions where a marriage is required after a child is conceived, but almost always that is the result of a happy couple being too eager, rather than a violent man attacking an innocent maid.”

The entire table stares at her in horror. Dori sputters, “But…but the child! Does the father not take on his share in raising it?”

She snorts. “Of course not. That would require him to admit that he associated himself with a disgraced woman, little better than a common whore.”

“Despite the fact that creatures like him provide the demand for said whores?” Fíli’s frown is sharp, like his mother’s.

“Yes,” Ailväel smiles sadly. “I have met more than one poor woman whose livelihood rested in the hands of roaches like that. It is a miserable existence.”

Thorin cannot imagine, and he supposes that Ailväel cannot really, either, though she can easier than the rest of them. For a moment, they are all quiet, and then he notices how low the fire has burned.

“We have an early start in the morning,” he announces, effectively breaking the spell. They all rise, murmuring about the soft beds awaiting them and who would be sharing a room. He catches Balin’s eye and takes the old dwarf’s exaggerated nod to be his cue.

“Miss Ailväel.” She turns, surprised, from halfway across the room. “Your room is at the top.”

She seems to catch the unspoken apology for the isolation from the rest of them in their rooms, and smiles. “That will be fine. Thank you for arranging it.” She makes to turn away again, but pauses. “I left three bridles to be repaired. They will be ready when we are, in the morning.”

He nods, shortly, and refuses to admit to himself that he watches her long dark braid bounce between her shoulder blades, catching firelight as she walks.

/

Four hours later, he has yet to find sleep.

His tossing and turning would likely keep Dwalin awake, but the sons of Fundin are in a room across the corridor. Thorin is sharing with his nephews, who would sleep through a landslide if called upon to do so.

Eventually he admits defeat, and pulls on his trousers, gathers his pipe and goes back downstairs to sit by the fire. Perhaps the smoke and the warmth will help him relax.

The main room is all but deserted, the hearth glowing red with coals. He stirs them back to life and settles into a chair, propping his bare feet on the raised hearth and fixing his pipe.

The journey thus far has gone smoothly. He is grateful, but also very nervous. This is by far the easiest leg of their travels, surrounded by peaceful meadows and passing a clear stream of water every half hour.

There are so many unknowns, so many pieces of the puzzle that have been left to guesswork and the riddles of a contrary old wizard that it sets Thorin’s teeth constantly on edge. He supposes there is something to be said for the fact that at least Ailväel can usually understand what Gandalf’s constant mutterings mean.

“Canna sleep?”

Dwalin is dressed similarly – just the tunic, trousers half done up, bare feet. He lowers himself into a nearby chair and mimics Thorin’s slouched posture, feet propped up close to the fire.

“The trail will get progressively rockier the closer we get to the mountains,” Thorin says quietly. “We’ll have to find something to do with the ponies; they cannot make the pass.”

“Least o’ our worries,” Dwalin grunts, resting his folded arms on his gut. “How in the name of Durin are we gonna get a wee hobbit an’ that ornery woman over those mountains?”

“I have the distinct impression that the _ornery woman_ will not require assistance,” Thorin says dryly. “And she would likely thank you to remember that.”

For once, Dwalin does not launch into a speech about how shifty he finds her. He merely grunts again.

“Certainly didn’t need help wit’ those brutes, earlier. Haven’t seen a man brought to ‘is knees so fast in decades.”

“Better not let her hear you saying such things,” Thorin cannot help but tease. “She’ll start to think you like her.”

“I don’t,” is the expected, immediate response. “Lass still hasn’t told us ev’rythin’. Keepin’ secrets, tryin’ to get the rest o’ the company on her side – what’s she playin’ at?”

************************

Thorin cannot disagree, however confused he is, and opens his mouth to tell Dwalin as much when a distant thud echoes above their heads.

“Wha’ the devil – “ Dwalin scowls up at the ceiling as more crashes follow, joined by shouting that is heavily muffled, as though it is coming from –

Thorin sits up straight.

“Did those men from dinner stay the night?”

“What?” Dwalin squints. “No, you saw ‘em leave same as I did. Wha’re you on about?”

Thorin shakes his head, and pushes to his feet as the thuds and shouts grow louder and more distinct. He can hear more voices join, several of which he recognizes as his company, but one cuts through them all – and it is unmistakably feminine.

His stomach fills with lead, and he starts towards the stairs at not quite a run. He stumbles to a halt when a man suddenly crashes into view, rolling down the last few treads to land in a crumpled, moaning heap on the floor.

Thorin observes his bloodied nose, the abnormal bend of his ankle, and the way he is clutching his ribs, all before looking up to see an incensed Ailväel standing on the lowest stair.

Her braid is undone, tresses darker than shadow tumbling wildly around her shoulders to her waist, and she is wearing nothing except a long tunic that mercifully covers her nearly to the knee. There is a small dagger in her hand, but he spots her bloodied lip, and works to rein in his own temper. He has no voice in this unless she asks for it, and that is highly unlikely – the anger in her eyes could send Smaug himself fleeing on the high winds.

“ _Get up_ ,” she snarls.

The pitiful pile of limbs moans in response, and Ailväel bounds forward. She grasps the hair on the back of his neck, and drags the man through the maze of tables and chairs without once breaking her stride, as if he weighs nothing more than a small child throwing a tantrum. Thorin watches her drag the man across the threshold of the tavern, dump him unceremoniously into the muddy street, and bolt the door behind him. She retraces her steps, fury still seeping out of every pore, and Thorin finds his own feet moving, planting himself in her path before he realizes it.

She at least stops, rather than going around him, though her glower is no gentle thing to have aimed in his direction.

“What?”

He deliberately keeps his voice calm.

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Was he…successful?”

The fire in her glare goes up by several notches. “What do you think?”

“I think the men of your race are imbeciles.”

She snorts, though there isn’t any amusement in her eyes. “You are nearly two centuries old, Master Oakenshield; is this new knowledge to you?”

He eyes her again, trying to think of another way to ask her if she is all right, because he is not entirely certain she is.

Balin, unexpectedly, comes to the rescue.

“Here, Miss Ailväel.” He wraps a blanket around her shoulders, and Thorin is surprised when she accepts it gratefully. He hadn’t thought of her being cold, though he ought to have, with her in nothing but a nightshirt and not standing close to the fire.

Balin finishes his fussing, taking care not to rearrange Ailväel’s hair but merely making sure she is covered, and Thorin is relieved to see the worst of the wrath gone from her eyes. He clears his throat.

“You are well?”

“I am,” she answers, calmer. “Thank you.”

And with that, she carefully goes around him, past the company who is all standing on the stairs watching the spectacle, and disappears up to her room.

“That…that _binjabl dashatu rukhs!”_ Fíli spits. Several of the others nod their agreement.

Thorin is hardly an exception, but Ailväel clearly has no wish to discuss it and so there is little use in them doing so without her.

“Back to bed, all of you.”

He is obeyed, though not without further mutterings of disapproval for Men in general. Dwalin goes to check the street, and reports that the man has vanished.

“Best idea he’s had all evening,” Thorin growls. Dwalin grunts his agreement before heading up to his bed; Thorin follows but hesitates outside the door of his room.

Ailväel’s room _is_ rather isolated, but he had hoped after the events at dinner she would be left alone…

He sighs, ducks into his room to dress and gather his weapons (and shrug off his nephews’ hundred questions) before making his way upstairs.

The door to her room is shut tightly, and no light is shining from underneath. He is not fooled by this for an instant, and especially not when he can hear the unmistakable sniffing from inside. As noiselessly as he can, he settles against the wall opposite her door on the tiny landing.

He draws his coat about him, stretches his legs out so that anyone coming up the stairs will trip over his boots, and miraculously drifts off to sleep in minutes.

************************

/

Ailväel rises at dawn, feeling considerably better than she did a few hours ago, and dresses carefully. The knife under her pillow normally resides on her ankle, and she tucks it into place with more care than usual.

Above all else, she is furious that she didn’t even hear the oaf until he tripped on a loose floorboard nail and fell onto the bed. She has traveled too far and seen too much to let her guard down so easily. It is by the grace of Mahal that _she_ was the one attacked, and not Thorin or his nephews in their room two floors below. She shudders to think of how much worse it could have been, had the culprit been a competent mercenary rather than a piece of gutter trash desperate for a rut.

Still, all’s well that ends well, so she finishes strapping on her various weapons, leaves a bit of coin on the table for the maid, and heads down for breakfast in a bit of a rush.

She very nearly falls headlong down the stairs when her toe catches on something large and solid just outside her door.

A warm, rough hand snatches her wrist and yanks her back to surer footing, and she stumbles into the wall beside her door. For a moment she thinks it is a friend of the man in the night, seeking revenge or to succeed where the first did not, and her hands reach for her knives on instinct.

But she pauses, fists closed tightly around the hilts, when she looks down to see Thorin rubbing his eyes.

“Er…”

“Apologies,” he rumbles, his voice confirming that he has been awake for only seconds. “Are you all right?”

She blinks, utterly baffled by…everything, to be honest. By his presence outside her door, by the fact that he very evidently slept curled up against the wall, by the fact that he is asking her for the third time in mere hours if she is all right, and especially by the fact that the raw, sleepy edge to his deep voice sends an odd tingle all the way down to her toes.

“What?”

“I tripped you,” he explains, pushing himself to his feet and wincing as various popping noises come from his joints.

Distantly she realizes it must have been his feet, stretched across the top of the stairs, that made her lose her balance. She blinks again, harder and shaking her head to help clear the cobwebs – she must be more tired than she realized – and coughs.

“Oh. Yes. I’m, er. I’m fine.”

A very tiny part of her wishes desperately to sink through this floor, all the floors beneath it, and straight into the mud on which The Prancing Pony rests.

The rest of her meets his eye, suddenly more aware of her surroundings and realizing the many questions that his presence here brings to mind.

“And what in the name of Nienna are you doing outside my room?”

“Your room is removed from the others,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

Ailväel squints up at him. There is a tiny, dirty window on the landing, letting in just enough pale dawn light to see the tip of one of his ears that is peeking through his hair. The flesh is a bright, boiling red, and only when she notices that does it strike her that he is shifting his weight uncomfortably; it reminds her of the way Fíli and Kíli shuffle their feet when they are embarrassed. It is as if their esteemed uncle has found a nobler, more distinguished version of the gesture.

She very nearly laughs, but she remembers the way he stood before her last night, looking her over with one piercing glare, fueled by anger which she knew was not directed at her.

“Surely I proved to even Dwalin last night that I am well able to protect myself.”

She is careful to keep all irritation out of her voice – for one, she is not really all that annoyed. Her months of reconnaissance in Ered Luin told her many things about Thorin Oakenshield, one of those being that he is one of the few dwarves in Middle Earth who does not put up a fuss over having female members of the royal guard. In fact, his esteem for more than one of those soldiers was such that he entrusted the lives of his sister and nephews to them on multiple occasions.

But it is more than that, she thinks, and a moment later he proves her right.

“I ensure the safety of all members of my company, Miss Ailväel,” he says gruffly, “not because they are defenseless without me, but because it is my duty as their leader. And now, for better or for worse, you are a member of this company. And so I will treat you as such, regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

She supposes she should not be surprised. The Thorin she watched from hidden nooks and dark passageways in the Blue Mountains was precisely the Thorin standing before her now – obstinately, stubbornly honorable, nearly to a fault.

“You have my thanks,” she says, quite honestly. “But does this mean you regularly spend your evenings guarding the chambers of all members of this company?”

He looks rather surprised at her teasing. Which, given that when they parted ways for the final time last night she had been bruised and seething with rage, is not that surprising. In fact, his shock quickly morphs into something like reproach.

“You are an accomplished warrior, Miss Ailväel, I will not deny it. But you are also the only woman in this company and as such, you face dangers that the rest of us do not.”

“True,” she agrees. “But surely you do not think that was the first time a man has tried to force his way into my bed.”

“I do not. But for someone who claims to have been raised by dwarves, you seem to be surprised at how we feel on the matter of assaulting a woman, even if she does carry twice her miniscule weight in steel.”

Ailväel is not certain whether that is a dig at the admittedly excessive number of knives she carries, or to her equally admittedly small stature in comparison to the bulk of the dwarves.

Either way, she decides to take the high road. “I am not surprised. Merely assuring you that it is unnecessary.”

He will ignore this, as would any honorable dwarf. She knows that he is not offering her his protection because he thinks she needs or wants it; he is offering it because he believes it is the right thing for him to do. And she cannot fault him for that.

Thorin nods, indicating that he is willing to at least pretend to agree with her, before holding his arm out in a gesture for her to precede him down the stairs. As she tries to determine how she didn’t hear him in the night, clunking about outside her door in those deafening boots, she glances over her shoulder.

“Do not think your jokes are original.”

“What?” he asks, baffled.

“Poking fun at my size. The dwarves of the Iron Hills were delighted to have someone about who was smaller than they were.”

There is a quiet huff from him, which she supposes is as close to laughter as he is ever going to come. “I will admit when you told Fíli how many daggers you carry, I too wondered where you kept them all. Kíli just had bad enough manners to ask the question.”

She chuckles. “You sound like my ‘ _adad_. He’s always said that I only wear so many to keep myself from blowing away at the first strong gust of wind.”

By this time they have reached the main room below, and the company is all up and dressed, gathered around the same table as the night before. Thorin touches her elbow ever so slightly, just enough to make her turn to face him. He stops far enough away from the table that no one will overhear him.

“You are well?” There is no repressed mirth in his eyes. She sobers as well, and nods.

“I am, Master Oakenshield. He was too drunk and too clumsy to do any real harm before I got my wits about me.”

He hesitates, and speaks even more quietly. “I…could hear you, in the night. Weeping.”

Something icy cold slides down into her stomach, but another glance at him tells her that he heard nothing else. He seems to have realized he has hit a nerve.

“Forgive me.”

She is utterly shocked by the courtesy he is showing her, but now is not the time to dwell on it. Hastily she covers up her dismay.

“I will admit the entire ordeal was…ah…unnerving. But I assure you I am fine now.”

His eyes flick up and down her form, only once, before he nods and goes to join the others at last. She takes a moment to regain her bearings before hitching a bright smile into place and turning around.

“Your lip is still swollen,” is Óin’s greeting. She pats his arm.

“It will heal quickly, Master Óin, don’t you fret. Is there any porridge left?”

Thorin sits on the other end this time, and fills his plate in silence. Dwalin leans over the table, knuckledusters clinking.

“I’ll tell ya, lass, I still don’ like ya. But I like your style. Left here near cryin’, he did.”

She grins. “Oh, stop it Dwalin, you’re making me blush.”

The rest of them chuckle, some more loudly than others, but Ori ( _bless him_ , she thinks fondly) is not to be distracted.

“Are you all right, Miss Ailväel? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Not nearly as much I hurt him,” she responds before pouring herself a cup of tea. “Pass the cream, would you please?”

Kíli hands her the crock, looking skeptical. “I didn’t see his fists were bloodied; how did he manage to hit you?”

Ailväel beams at him. “Clever lad, noticing a thing like that in all the hubbub.” She reaches for the marmalade. “He didn’t actually hit me; he tripped and fell onto the bed. His elbow caught my face in a lucky blow.”

“Dead clumsy, the fool,” Fíli mutters.

“He was,” she agrees. “He was also well into his cups. I am rather impressed he managed the stairs at all.”

To her surprise, Dwalin speaks up with a fierce scowl.

“Shoulda gelded ‘im.”

“I will keep that in mind for future incidences,” she says dryly, and at last tucks into breakfast while reflecting that it does not really matter what race they belong to – men are very strange creatures.

/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘adad: father  
> faslmagân u Mebelkhags: pair of elf testicles  
> u’mâd: nourishers (in this fic, a reverent term Dwarves use to refer to their women, as women are the givers and nourishers of life)  
> ***this is not to say that dwarven women are expected to marry and pop out babies; this is rather a term of the utmost respect for women in general because of the sacrifice and love the role of motherhood requires, which is a role that only women can fulfill even if not every woman chooses to.  
> binjabl dashatu rukhs: brainless son of an orc  
> SYNOPSES:
> 
> Scene #1  
> Basically Ailväel gets the stink eye from the other people in the tavern because she’s the only girl at a table of dudes and that’s [gasp] scandalous. Some of the waitresses give her the Disapproving Soccer Mom Look™ and then a guy at the next table over asks why on earth she’s giving her “services” (and yes that means he’s calling her a prostitute) to these dwarves because they are obviously too broke to afford “a hot girl like you??” and expects Ailväel to feel flattered by that.   
> She puts him in his place (basically by saying the dwarves are so good in bed that she’s not charging them anything) and his even more of a dick-wad friend comes over and says “uh, no way they’re that good, they’re dwarves and are small!!!!” and that’s when Ailväel informs him that dwarves are 1000% better than men in bed because dwarves being short does NOT mean they are small everywhere [smirks] and the dude gets pissed and attacks her. She handles it quickly and effectively and the company resumes their dinner.
> 
> Scene #2  
> So Thorin hears shouting and fighting from upstairs, and is going to investigate when a dude falls down the stairs. Ailväel shows up and is P I S S E D, physically throws the guy out because he broke into her room and tried Things. Thorin is mad too but for her sake, and asks if she’s hurt or anything and then he spends the rest of the night on the floor outside her room just to make sure she’s okay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but Ailväel’s character is explored a bit more in-depth here. Thank you all so much for your interest and support of this story. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.

 

Despite the rather optimistic start over breakfast at the Prancing Pony, Ailväel finds herself a bit…shunned, in the early days of their pilgrimage.

She spoke the truth to Gandalf, when she said that she expected it and was prepared for it. But that does not change the fact that it stings to be intentionally excluded.

It always has.

She employs her usual tactic of ignoring it, but then they start to draw Bilbo in under their wings; it is bad enough that they have never looked at the hobbit with suspicion, only curiosity. But then Ailväel watches as, evening after evening, Bofur invites him to sit with them by the fire after supper to exchange pipe tobacco and stories.

And evening after evening, Ailväel diligently polishes her already spotless knives, just to have something to distract her from curling up in a ball and weeping.

Mahal, but she’s forgotten how much it _hurts_. She didn’t think it was possible to forget it, since it was all she knew as a child and even into the early years of her majority. Even after all she’s done for them, the dwarrow at home frown suspiciously and avoid her whenever she comes for a visit.

But this…this is different, somehow.

The dwarves of Erebor, from what she’s seen from her trips to Ered Luin, are a mistrusting lot by nature. She cannot truly blame them for it, since she knows full well their struggles in their years of wandering after the dragon.

But they’d seemed…friendly, if a bit cautious, at Bag End, and then at the inn. Somehow, she’d gotten her hopes up. A naïve mistake, one she should’ve been smart enough to avoid making. But made it she has, and now there is nothing to be done for it.

She carefully avoids Gandalf’s sympathetic gaze; he is one of two people in all of Arda who knows precisely how lonely her life has been, how deeply that ache is rooted within her soul. She desperately hopes that he will not attempt to soothe her. Already she is spending every moment around the company with a tight grip on her emotions. If the wizard so much as pats her on the shoulder, she is not sure she could hold back the flood.

In all fairness, most of them might even like her a little bit. But they are too loyal to Oakenshield to risk showing her anything other than cold civility, since he is still irate at her and Gandalf both for their secrecy. His temper she could handle, but the pattern it sets for the rest of the company leaves a sour taste in her mouth and dejected slump to her shoulders.

They travel at a moderate yet urgent pace. Thorin obviously knows better than to overexert the ponies, but they rise early each morning and journey until they have just enough daylight by which to set up camp. He frowns habitually whenever she is within his line of sight.

His shows of displeasure at her presence are in truth a wonderful distraction from her melancholy. One day she accidentally makes Kíli laugh when she helps Bilbo into his saddle with just a little too much force, nearly sending the hobbit over the other side. Thorin’s glower dries up Kíli’s laughter like snow being dumped onto hot coals.

Ailväel rolls her eyes as she climbs onto her own pony. Really, she is not trying to turn his own company against him. There is no need for him to be such a sour old fusspot.

When they find rest at the top of a ravine that evening, Ailväel takes her usual duties of helping the lads stake the ponies and gathering firewood. Bombur gives her his usual polite but distant smile of thanks for her armful of sticks, and she uses the remaining daylight to clean her knives again. By now they are clean enough to eat with – which is saying something for her, because she knows where those blades have been – but it is all she has to occupy herself with since conversation is out of the question.

Supper is lonely as well, with her seated closer to them than usual due to their smaller campsite. But she can feel the invisible barrier regardless, pressing down on her like an anvil sitting on her chest.

Afterwards they drift off to sleep in pairs; the smaller space means she is leant against the rocks close enough to hear when Fíli and Kíli start whispering stories of orc raids to Bilbo.

Her opinion isn’t worth dirt to anybody here, but she frowns anyway.

Thorin immediately puts his nephews in place, albeit rather harshly. Balin soothes their wounded feelings with a tale that Ailväel knows by heart; it was her favorite bedtime story as a child.

Bilbo, captivated, listens to the victory of the young Prince in the Battle of Azanulbizar. Balin’s storytelling skills are at the fore, enrapturing them all so that they can almost hear Azog’s scream of rage and pain on the wind.

“What…what happened to him? The Pale Orc?” Bilbo looks around uncertainly.

“That filth slunk back into the hole whence he came,” Thorin snarls. “He died of his wounds long ago.”

Ailväel can feel Gandalf looking at her rather pointedly, and out of fear he might say something she touches Fíli’s shoulder gently.

“Hobbits have equal cause to hate wolves that dwarves do for orcs,” she says. “Either way lads, your joke was not in good taste.”

They are clearly taken aback (but how could they have known, really?). They bow their heads, and offer an apology to Bilbo that is undoubtedly sincere. He acknowledges it, but his keen eyes are riveted on her. Ailväel shifts uncomfortably.

“Why do hobbits hate wolves?” Bofur pipes up.

Bilbo does not answer. He is still watching Ailväel with what is clearly dawning realization.

She panics, but tries to play it off with a nervous chuckle. “Come now, Bilbo, they’re curious.”

He shakes his head, smiling in wonder and not buying her forced nonchalance for one second. “You know. Don’t you, Miss Ailväel?”

Trying to avoid everyone’s questioning gazes does not work; at last she looks to Gandalf for aid. He merely smiles and gestures for her to continue.

She sighs.

“A little more than forty years ago, the Shire experienced a poor harvest. Such a thing is rare, but can happen. It was followed by an early and brutal winter, and both along with the eating habits of Shirelings proved disastrous. The Brandywine froze over before Yule. Wolves from the North Downs came, crossing the frozen river in search of food. The Rangers, who guard the Shire, could not move as quickly in the heavy snows.”

There is a moment of silence, the dwarves clearly adjusting the peaceful Shire they witnessed with a story of hardship and loss. She sees Thorin looking at Bilbo with new eyes; grimly she thinks that at least some good is come of this disastrous conversation.

“How many were lost?” Dwalin asks quietly.

“None, at least not to the wolves,” Bilbo answers. He is staring at Ailväel with some mix of awe and gratitude in his eyes, and it makes her skin crawl. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

She swallows. “Bilbo – “

“What do you mean?” Thorin rumbles, frowning as he looks between the two of them.

Bilbo laughs incredulously. “Miss Ailväel, do you know – do you have _any_ idea at all, how many times we’ve wished we could thank you?”

Ailväel shakes her head, staring at her knees until her vision goes blurry.

“Thank her for what?”

The question comes from Ori, but it is seconded by nearly everyone else. She shakes her head again, wishing she never opened her mouth to Fíli in the first place.

“My father fell sick,” Bilbo explains. “He needed medicine, being almost on his deathbed. My mother took me with her to fetch it. I was so small, I couldn’t be left essentially on my own. The trip took much longer than she thought, and we were caught in the dark trying to make it home before the illness took my father’s life.”

“The wolves,” Balin mutters in sympathy.

“Yes, they found us,” Bilbo says. “But even though they surrounded us, we escaped. A hooded figure appeared out of the trees and fought them all off. I never saw her face, but when the last wolf was dead she turned to my mother and told her to hurry home. I knew by the voice alone it was a woman.”

He shakes his head, still smiling at Ailväel. “It was _you_.”

For a moment Ailväel tries very hard to pretend that everyone is not staring at her, but gives up with a huff. “How do you even remember that?” she demands crossly. “You were hardly more than a babe.”

“Even if I hadn’t on my own, my mother would not have let me forget the woman who saved us,” Bilbo says quietly. “And we were not the only ones you protected that winter. Fauntlings are told the story of the Winter Huntress, from the cradle up. There was even talk of putting up a statue of you in front of the Green Dragon, but nobody knew what you look like.”

He hooks his thumbs into his suspenders, looking positively delighted. “Just wait until I get back home and – “

“Bilbo Baggins, don’t you _dare_ put up a statue of me!” She ignores the chuff of laughter from Gandalf, and the unreadable look from Thorin. “I am not deserving of fame or glory, Bilbo. I only did what was right.”

Bilbo, who seemed rather taken aback at her outburst, smiles gently. “Miss Ailväel, forty-three hobbits died that winter. But not one of them died from the wolves. You can’t expect us not to be grateful.”

Seeing nothing for it, Ailväel digs out her pipe; she is far too keyed up now to ever fall asleep. “Yes, well, I can expect you not to write songs about it. It was a few measly little wolves, nothing to cause such a fuss.”

Bilbo scoffs, about to argue again, when Thorin speaks up.

“I find this all impossible.”

Bilbo looks at him. “What?”

“It cannot have been her.” Thorin’s glare is no less potent for coming all the way across the clearing. “Your age does not allow for you to have been alive, let alone strong enough to fight off wolves, forty years ago.”

Ah.

 _Now_ they’ve got to the juicy bits. Ailväel sighs, smoke clouding around her.

“I am seventy-three years old.”

A beat of stunned silence, then –

“At least,” she adds.

“You canna be,” Dwalin growls.

She can feel every pair of eyes raking her up and down, looking for the physical signs of aging in a Woman. She wants to burrow into the ground, hide behind _Tharkûn_ ’s cloak, anything to avoid the feeling that she is before the council of Nardorahl once again.

“Well, I am,” she says bitterly, gnawing on the pipe stem. “Ask Gandalf, if you do not believe me.”

“It is true,” the wizard speaks up at last. “Though her exact age is uncertain; I have known Ailväel from infancy.”

“What do you mean, your exact age is uncertain?” Thorin snaps.

She huffs, sending pipe smoke into the air in a chaotic swirl of grey. There is nothing for it but to tell the whole, miserable story. And she _hates_ telling the whole, miserable story.

“My parents were merchants from Rhûn. When I was an infant they were traveling, presumably to Dale, when an orc pack ambushed them in the lower slopes of the Iron Hills. Someone, likely my mother or father, hid me in a hollowed tree, and when Lord Dáin’s soldiers arrived on word of orcs so close to their borders, his son Thorin Stonehelm heard me crying. I was the only survivor, and so they took me back with them. I was adopted and raised there in Nardorahl.”

She says all of this in a stony, emotionless tone, staring at nothing.

“That does not explain how you can be as old as you claim,” Thorin says after a moment. His tone sounds almost as if he is trying to be tactful in the face of her own loss, but she is sure she is imagining it.

“Ask _him_ ,” she says irritably, pointing with the stem of her pipe at the wizard. “He’s the one who’s been trying to puzzle it out my whole life.”

“You are curious too, Ailväel, don’t try denying it.” Gandalf chuckles. “Well, at first she looked and grew as a normal child of Men. But around her fourteenth year, there was a raid of orcs on the keep of Nardorahl. Stonehelm was very nearly slain. Ailväel snuck out onto the causeway to watch the fighting, and had the luck to see him surrounded. She threw a dagger, which killed the orc about to strike the fatal blow.”

Thorin is, no other way to put it, gawking at her.

“Wha’ does that have to do with her age?” Dwalin asks, still scowling.

“The distance and accuracy of the throw could not have been done by a grown soldier of Man, and she was entirely untrained at the time. It was the first hint. And as she has aged with no deterioration in either body or strength, it became only clearer that Ailväel is no normal Woman.”

Ailväel chews on her pipe stem so hard her teeth dent the wood.

“So then…what are ye?” Bofur ventures.

She squashes the impulse to be rude and ask why they suddenly care. “I do not know.”

“My best guess thus far is that you are a far descendant of the Dúnedain.” Gandalf is actually enjoying this, the wooly-headed trouble maker that he is. She glares at him and he ignores it jovially.

“The Dúnedain?” Thorin scoffs. “They are from the west, and you say you hail from Rhûn.”

“And after the fall of Arnor, the Dúnedain scattered, many of them as far south as Gondor,” Gandalf corrects him. “It is not difficult to imagine that some of them made their way across the Brown Plains as well.”

Thorin purses his lips, unwilling to argue further but obviously not agreeing. The rest of them are staring, doing a poor job of muttering to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

Ailväel sighs, and pushes to her feet.

“I’ll take the first watch. We’re wasting good sleep sitting here gossiping.”

She half expects Thorin to refuse her offer, but he orders everyone to bed and follows suit, after one last puzzled glower in her direction.

It is almost a relief, to be alone in the quiet. She puts her pipe away and settles on a rock that offers her a view of the ravine and its opposite bank, trying and failing to keep her thoughts away from the conversation from before Bilbo had recognized her.

Ailväel cannot really blame Thorin for assuming the Defiler is dead. She is quite sure she would do the same.

But she is even more certain that Azog is still very much alive. Her entire back itches at the mere thought of him, and she shifts uncomfortably while wondering if she ought to tell Thorin the truth.

She snorts at the mere thought. He clearly has no interest in the truth, as evidenced by his reaction to her story. Which is why she wanted to avoid telling him that as well. But as always, _Tharkûn_ had other ideas.

“You are cross with me.”

She does not tell him to go away, but she does not turn to look at him either.

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

Gandalf sighs as he sits down beside her. “Really, Ailväel. Your past is nothing to be ashamed of. You cannot help what you are.”

She says nothing, clenching her jaw as she stares out into the night.

“Neither,” he continues quietly, “can you help what you are not.”

“Try telling the dwarves back home that.”

“I did, on several occasions if you recall.”

“And notice how much good it did.” Ailväel at last turns to look at him, not bothering to hide the tears gathering in her eyes or the way her voice trembles. “I used to lay awake at night, wondering if I thought hard enough about growing a beard it would somehow appear. If I could make my hips wider, my ears bigger, my hands more broad. It never worked, Gandalf. They never accepted me, despite your best efforts.”

She huffs, and turns back to stare across the ravine again. “It will not work this time either. I would be grateful if you would stop trying, because all you are doing is antagonizing them.”

Gandalf says nothing in response, and after a long while he gently pats her shoulder before he moves to find his own rest.

Ailväel sits alone all through the cold night, and lets the wind dry her tears.

/

Thorin does not sleep easily. Not anymore.

Still, he was enjoying a brief rest before a howl from across the ravine and the juvenile behavior of his nephews gave him a rude awakening.

And after the resulting conversation has ended, he finds that sleep is further away than Erebor.

Ailväel does not wake anyone else to relieve her, but sits on watch for the rest of the night. Her back is to him, but he can tell she is paying attention to her task, regardless of the dejected slump of her shoulders.

He didn’t know what to think of her before, and now he feels no closer to understanding her than he was this morning. Her story answers many of his questions but begs a thousand more.

One question is undeniably settled, at least in his mind:

Ailväel has spoken the truth.

Even after hearing how she was orphaned and came to be in the Iron Hills in the first place, he found it difficult to doubt her. There was no reason for Gandalf to confirm her story.

But overhearing her quiet words to the wizard afterwards is what really settled it all for Thorin.

She was not performing for anyone, was not keeping up a ruse. And even if she was – the pain in her voice could not have been anything but genuine.

The same goes for her embarrassment in the face of the hobbit’s awe, even though Thorin still has a tiny seed of doubt regarding the truth of _that_ story.

Not because he doubts her capability, of either sword or compassion; rather simply because the winters in the Iron Hills are reputably harsh and long, which means most inhabitants spend the cold months tucked up inside the fortress. Why was she found as far away as the Shire at that time of year?

He puzzles and puzzles it over his mind, until he dozes off in the early hours before dawn. When he wakes again the sky is a pale rosy color, the camp is stirring to life, and Ailväel is gone – off fetching water, Glóin tells him.

Without really planning to, he follows; the nearest stream is not far, but no one in the company should be wandering off alone, especially when the sun is not yet fully risen.

His boots and the hem of his coat are damp with dew by the time he finds her. The company’s water skins are piled beside her on the bank, with one of the ponies standing nearby placidly chewing his breakfast. Thorin clears his throat and watches her tense, knelt over the running water.

“What is it?” She looks over her shoulder at him, wary.

“Nothing,” he says honestly. He sheds his coat, spreading it on a nearby rock before he kneels next to her. Wordlessly, she hands him a water skin to fill.

The stream is bitterly cold this early in the morning, and the extra clarity helps him gather his thoughts.

“I am sorry.”

Whatever she was expecting, it was clearly not that; she jerks and frowns at him.

“Whatever for?”

He hesitates, unsure how to voice his thoughts honestly and yet make it clear that he still does not really trust her.

“I know the grief of losing one’s parents. It leaves a void.”

For several long moments there is no sound but the gurgling stream. Ailväel finally ceases staring at him, and turns back to her task. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a pink flush working its way down her neck.

“I…I did not hurt as you have.” Her voice is almost too quiet to hear over the water. “I do not remember them, and so I cannot really miss them. Whereas you…”

She does not finish her sentence, but Thorin understands.

“And yet,” he replies quietly, “the lack of memories leaves an ache that I was spared. Your pain is not less, only different.”

He risks a glance in her direction; he is startled to find her glaring at him suspiciously.

“Why are you saying this?” she demands.

He frowns. “I – “

“I have lived this long without so much as a _scrap_ of sympathy thrown in my direction from any dwarf,” she continues hotly, standing and marching over to hang her full water skin on the pony’s saddle horn. “I imagine I am able to continue living without it.”

“I was not – “

She whirls on him angrily. “And I suppose you think this makes up for the past few weeks, hm? The way the others follow your example in shutting me out, never caring once to know anything about me until Bilbo sparked their morbid curiosity.”

He falters, suddenly seeing a flash of something deeper than anger in her eyes.

“Miss Ailväel – “

“And just so you know,” she prattles on, unhearing. “As to whether or not you believe anything you heard last night, I couldn’t give a warg’s – “

“Miss Ailväel.” He is quite unwilling to be cursed at this early in the morning. “I am not apologizing for not trusting you. I merely came to express my condolences.”

“Your condolences,” she repeats flatly.

“Yes.”

Ailväel stares at him a moment. “You believe me, then.”

“I do, yes.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

He considers lying to her, but it feels terribly hypocritical in this moment. “I…overheard your discussion with Gandalf, after everyone else went to bed.”

She is mortified, made clear by her deep blush and the way she is looking anywhere but him. The Balin-voice in his head gives him a metaphorical elbow to the ribs, which he roundly ignores.

“I do have more questions, if you are feeling indulgent.”

Ailväel is clearly feeling anything but; for whatever reason, she nods and takes another empty skin to the water.

“Your markings…they are because of the incident Gandalf mentioned, are they not?”

She snorts. “The council patted me on the head and decided that I could be useful after all, and I was sent off to begin my training the next day.”

He cannot help but frown at that. “At the age of fourteen? You were hardly more than a child.”

“Their excuse was that I was closer to my majority than a dwarf of the same age would be.” She shrugs. “I did not mind; until then I had nothing with which to occupy my days.”

“You said you were educated,” he remembers. “Were you not in lessons?”

“My ‘ _adad_ taught me at home, in the evenings after his work was done.” She shakes her head. “The other dwarflings…well. It was difficult to learn. But at least it meant I finished before any of them did.”

Thorin is not stupid; he can read between the lines as well as anyone. But he also can tell that she is avoiding the subject very deliberately, and so he follows her lead and asks his next question.

“Why did you say nothing of your part in the Shire winter? You clearly recognized Bilbo from your encounter with him and his mother.”

This appears to be a more difficult question for Ailväel, because she opens and closes her mouth several times without saying anything. At last she puts the water skin down and twists to face him directly.

“I spoke the truth, when I said my purpose on this journey is to protect you and your nephews,” she says quietly. “You may not believe me, but it _is_ why I am here. Despite that, the fact remains that I….did things, in my earlier years, that I sorely regret now. I am hardly deserving of anyone’s hero-worship.”

Thorin bites his tongue to keep from asking for more details on that. He has a feeling he would not get an answer.

“You said you have been to the ruins of Dale,” he moves on to his next inquiry. “But with your age…you must have been alive when Erebor fell.”

“Yes,” she says, darting a wary glance at him. “I was thirteen when the news came. And I was twenty-one when the remaining soldiers returned from Azanulbizar.”

He swallows.

“I have to say, Balin tells the story even better than my ‘ _adad_ did.” Her smile is a pitiful thing, a barely-there quirk in one corner of her mouth.

He rolls his eyes regardless. “He always did like to spin yarns.”

Ailväel hands him the last empty skin, taking his full one to the pony. When she does not return immediately, he looks over his shoulder and frowns.

“You lost your brother that day.”

She is not looking at him, more glancing in his direction over her shoulder while she strokes the pony’s mane. He swallows again.

“I did.”

“And your grandfather…and your father.”

He says nothing.

“And yet you have come here, when you should be discussing the day’s travel with Balin, to express your condolences for a tragedy that is absent from my memory entirely.”

He rolls his eyes again, shoving the stopper in the now full water skin and striding over to the pony.

“Is it really so hard to believe that dwarves are capable of compassion?”

Ailväel’s expression is guarded. “No. But it is exceptionally hard to believe that any dwarf would wish to express that compassion towards _me_.”

Thorin could think for a hundred years and still not have any idea of what to say in reply to that. He gestures helplessly.

She shrugs. “It is not your fault. But it is not mine either, so do try not to take offense.”

“You said you were adopted,” he protests, retrieving his coat. “Surely your family – “

“My father and brother were occupied with the family business.” She takes the reins and clucks gently at the pony so it follows them back up the hill. “The other dwarves…suffice it to say that I visit Nardorahl, rather than live there.”

He is more confused than ever, but at the last moment before they reach camp, he remembers one other question he had.

“Why were you so far from the fortress in the dead of winter?”

Her head jerks around so quickly he hears her neck pop; she winces, but cannot hide her startled expression. The surprise quickly gives way to shadows in her eyes that he is all too familiar with. His heart sinks even when she turns to face frontwards once more.

“I was…I was captured,” she says softly. “By orcs. I had not been free of them for long, and sought solace in the Shire. Gandalf always told such wonderful stories about it when I was a child. A place so beautiful and green, and peaceful. Even in winter I hoped it would aid in my healing.”

He studies her profile. “And instead you found a place ravished by hunger and wolves.”

“I did,” she agrees, a soft smile creasing her mouth. “But I think it might have been for the best. I was needed, and it helped my spirit heal much more quickly. After all, wolves are bloodthirsty but they are not evil in the manner of orcs. The following spring I encountered Gandalf on my journey home, and he took care of the rest.”

Thorin has more questions, as he always does when it comes to her. But for now he keeps silent, watching her expression turn inwards, undoubtedly sparked by the memories he has stirred. He is not sure if he needs to apologize for that or not.

The rest of the company greet her quietly when they return, a few of them even thanking her for their water supply. She nods in response, though he can tell the hesitant olive branches being extended her way have caught her off guard.

Beneath his mistrust and dislike of her, something like pity stirs in his stomach. He wonders if perhaps, once the quest is finished, he ought to have a word with his cousin. To accept an orphan into your clan, and then allow the others to treat her with blatant contempt and prejudice…

He has no proof, and he highly doubts Ailväel will ever be willing to share details of the undoubtedly numerous offenses done her.

Then, of course, remains the fact that Ailväel would hardly thank him for interfering – she has clearly found a way to cope with it, at least in part. Now he feels almost guilty, for the disappointed curve of her mouth all these evenings when she has not been welcomed around the campfire.

But how can he offer friendship and camaraderie if he cannot even trust her?

 _Perhaps you can_ , a voice whispers for the first time.

He studies her, quietly seated beside Bombur as she helps clean some wild berries of dirt and stems before dumping them in the large kettle of porridge. Bofur says something to her, and a grin splits her mouth before she catches it, surprised delight and humor making her look far younger than she is.

He sighs. Perhaps.

/

Bilbo is not sure if he ought to apologize or not.

He hasn’t really done anything wrong, only Miss Ailväel looked so terribly uncomfortable last night and he hadn’t had the sense to shush when she so clearly wanted him to.

But how could he have done, upon learning that the one who saved his and his mother’s lives was sitting right before him?

It was only proper that he thanked her, told her how indebted the Shire was for her courage and kindness. One woman against a pack of hungry wolves was not great odds, even for Big Folk. And yet she’d delivered them, guarded their land like a hen with chicks under her wings.

He thinks about the panicked look in her eyes, when he made the joke about the statue; he sighs and treads over to the ponies after breakfast. Ailväel is saddling her own mount as well as Bilbo’s. She sees him coming and offers a friendly smile, which relieves him that perhaps she is not truly upset with him.

“Morning, Miss Ailväel.”

“And a fine one it is, too. Ready to journey on?”

“Yes.” He’s able to be truthful with her, and she knows he is still not overly fond of riding. But he’s improved so much that the initial discomfort is all but gone. He puts the struggles of the trail from his mind.

“I…I fear I owe you an apology, Miss Ailväel.”

Her hands still on her pony’s bridle; she sends him a wary glance, to which he raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“I won’t thank you again, though Yvanna knows you deserve it. I never meant to embarrass you last night. I just…my mother always wished she could thank you herself. Though we lost many that winter to the cold and sickness, you ensured our suffering was not added to.”

Ailväel sighs. “You did not embarrass me, Bilbo. I…am simply unaccustomed to being thanked for anything.”

He frowns. “Well, then you must know some very rude people.”

Ailväel snorts. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Bilbo isn’t sure whether to laugh or not, but a booming voice from across the clearing decides it for him.

“Master Baggins, if you are quite finished with your gossiping, might we set off?” Thorin’s disapproving glower is fearsome, even from across the camp. Bilbo flushes and scurries into the saddle.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall prove your point for you,” he hears Ailväel mutter, and hides his grin while he gets his feet into the stirrups.

/

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had this chapter all done, and then right before I went to post it I decided I hated it and wanted to start all over, and THEN halfway through rewriting it I decided I liked this one better after all.
> 
> Anyway. Sorry for the wait. I’m so glad you’re liking it so far, the comments have made me extremely happy. Like, buckets of warm gooey feelings just all over the place. It’s awesome. Keep ‘em coming.

 

Three weeks into their journey, and Thorin is no closer to solving the puzzle that is Ailväel than he was on the road to Bag End.

Now that the company have welcomed her into their midst, it is clear that Ailväel possesses a friendly and generous spirit. She helps hunt for fresh game, having archery competitions with Kíli and inspiring an unhealthy amount of hero worship from the lad. She gathers herbs and roots for Óin, coos over Bifur’s toys and carvings, fawns over Bombur’s cooking, and lets Fíli inspect all of her admittedly high quality daggers (save the one). She listens to Glóin’s repeated poetics on his wife and son with polite interest; she laughs at Nori and Bofur’s jokes – the bawdier the better. Even Dori has warmed up to her, but that is partly because she complimented the tea he makes and mostly because she killed a poisonous snake that Ori almost stepped on one night whilst making camp.

The only ones who have retained their standoffishness are Thorin, Dwalin and Balin. The latter hides his suspicion behind his manners – ever the diplomat, that one – but Thorin knows that Ailväel can see through the façade. She has not tried anything to win the three of them over, probably because she knows it is a lost cause.

Oh, he makes an effort to be more polite to her, and no longer discourages the rest of them from their friendly advances. But his own personal opinion of her has not changed other than entertaining the minute possibility that she could be on their side.

Ailväel, to her credit, clearly holds no hard feelings against anyone. And Thorin somehow finds himself waiting for her to use her new standing with his company as an excuse to challenge him. Bizarrely, he is itching for a proper row with her; this new creature of smiles and jokes is not the woman he met on the road to Bag End. He is determined to find out which is the real Ailväel.

To his immense irritation, she gives him absolutely nothing to work with.

She does not question his authority, does not slow them down, and does not complain about rations or the weather or the pace. She is, for all intents and purposes, an ideal company member.

It is _infuriating_.

At this moment, he is trying very hard to pretend that his aggravation is only from her and not the rain pouring down the back of his tunic.

Though he will admit that the sight of her sitting on her horse looking like a drowned rat is enough to make him smirk.

“Mr. Gandalf,” Dori finally loses his patience. “Can’t you do something about this deluge?”

“It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to rain until the rain is done.” The wizard sounds as though he is no more cheerful about the grey skies and damp clothes than any of them are. “If you wish to change the weather you should find yourself another wizard.”

Bilbo, however, is no less curious for being miserable, and proceeds to pepper _Tharkûn_ with questions about other wizards throughout Arda; Thorin notices Ailväel stifle a yawn as she rolls her shoulders uncomfortably. He frowns – she took no portion of the watch the night before and thus has no reason to seem more weary than usual.

Now that he looks at her properly, however, she looks a mite ill. Her mouth has a slight downward twist and she shivers often, though that is not surprising since humans are not as warm-blooded as dwarfs.

Up ahead, the hobbit is inquiring about one brown wizard, the name of whom Thorin did not hear.

“Is he a great wizard, or is he…well, more like you?”

Ailväel makes a noise that is somewhere between a snort and a cough, hurriedly raising her hand to her mouth so that Gandalf does not see her grin when he turns to glare over his shoulder.

“I think he’s a very great wizard,” he huffs. “He cares more for the company of the woodland creatures than people. He resides in the southern reaches of Mirkwood.”

Thorin, again, does not know of whom they speak, but after hearing the person’s place of residence it is not hard to decide that he never wants to meet them.

He tries to put the matter out of his mind until they pass out rations of dried meat for a cold midday meal. Kíli, Bofur and Ailväel carry the food stores on their ponies and so when she draws near to Thorin to pass him his share, he seizes his chance.

“Are you ill?”

She shrugs. “I am wet and cold, and will likely have a cough tomorrow.”

He did not expect such honesty from her; she strikes him as the sort of person who does not admit weakness easily. His surprise must show on his face, because she chuckles.

“There is no point in denying it; I am too old to pretend the weather does not affect my health. I am not as hardy and resistant to illness as dwarves are in the first place. I will ask Óin to fix me some of that gods-awful tea tonight and hope it does the trick.”

Still a bit baffled, Thorin nods his agreement and watches her give some food to Balin next.

His mood does not improve even as the weather does. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and the result is a steamy heat rising off the earth that makes even breathing uncomfortable. They take a brief rest midafternoon to relieve themselves and refill water-skins. Several of them, Thorin included, find a bit of privacy around large trees or boulders to braid their hair back.

When they mount up again, Thorin glances across the company to ensure all have returned from the woods. He thinks he sees Ailväel watching him, but when he looks at her she is stifling another yawn even as she helps Bilbo get back into the saddle.

They ride steadily on until the sun begins to slip behind the horizon. The rain-dampened grasses reflect the last golden beams of daylight like gems, and Thorin has to admit that this small piece of wilderness just outside the Shire is quite beautiful.

Apparently he is not the first to think so, as they come across an abandoned farmhouse just before sunset.

Gandalf protests his decision to make camp there in a spectacular display of temper; the wizard even has the gall to suggest going to the _elves_. When he at last stomps off into the brush Thorin has to restrain himself from waving a sarcastic but cheery farewell at his back.

Ailväel, with Bilbo in tow, has already gathered the wood for a fire and delivers it to Glóin before she ambles over to the remains of the house.

“What has the wizard in such a fuss?”

Bizarrely, Thorin is grateful that she seems to take his side of the matter – she could have easily asked what he did to anger Gandalf so.

“That old badger would have us go the _enemy_ for help.”

Ailväel perches carefully on the charred edge of a windowsill and gives him a shocked look. “He advised you to seek the help of orcs?”

Thorin squints at her, anger slowly giving way to confusion. “No, of course not the bloody orcs. The elves.”

“Oh.” Ailväel frowns, looking the same direction in which Gandalf disappeared. “I did not realize the Woodland Elves were venturing this far west.”

He wonders if she is much more ill than she let on earlier. “No, Miss Ailväel. The elves of Rivendell. Though I do not think there is much difference,” he cannot help but add with a sneer.

Ailväel blinks at him, surprised. “I must admit I was unaware of any animosity between the elves here and the dwarves of Erebor. Did Lord Elrond insult your grandfather in some way?”

Thorin grits his teeth. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Did he deny your people aid when you fled the Mountain, as Thranduil did?”

“No.”

Ailväel looks away, before she looks at him again with a puzzled frown. “Then…how is he your enemy?”

Thorin growls, he cannot help it. “He is an elf.” He says this with the air of addressing a simpleton.

Ailväel’s eyes flash and for a moment, he wonders what he has done this time to earn her ire. But no – it is not anger currently flitting across her features. It is amusement.

“I see.” She gets to her feet and heads off to help with supper. “I am glad we are following a leader with such sound logic,” she says over her shoulder, though quietly so none of the others hear her.

Thorin is left staring at her back, wondering what in the name of Mahal she means by that, and also why he does not feel angry at her impertinence.

He sighs. He is becoming very accustomed to feeling confused around her. And he does not like it. Not one bit.

/

Ailväel does not particularly enjoy the rain – but Bilbo does not have a proper cloak and honestly, the poor fellow has been sneezing nonstop since they left Hobbiton. So she goes without, and spends most of the afternoon in damp clothes and with water pooled in her boots.

After she has helped set up camp and gotten a truly eloquent explanation from Thorin as to why they will be avoiding Rivendell – she is only grateful she managed not to laugh in his face – Ailväel decides she has been uncomfortable for long enough.

“Bofur, how long till supper?”

“Oh, half an hour a’ most. Where’re you off to, lass?” The dwarf swats his brother’s hand away from the stewpot and smiles cheerfully.

“To answer nature’s call and get into some dry clothes. I’ll be back before it’s done.” She’ll make certain of _that_ – the Brother’s Ur certainly know their way around the cook fire, and she has no wish to have her portion gobbled up by any of the others.

“Aye, can’t say I blame you. Want to take Bifur along to keep watch?”

She snorts. “You’re kind to offer, both of you, but I think everyone in this company would rather peek at an orc than at me. I won’t be long, I promise.”

Bofur grins. “None o’ us would dare do you the dishonor, Miss Ailväel. I meant to keep watch for beasts or the like.”

She blinks. “Oh. Erm…no, I’ll be all right.”

Bifur looks up from his carving as she passes. “ _Maimhim_.”

She smiles at him, ridiculously touched. “ _E amnâd_.”

The peace of the forest all but rings in her ears in comparison to the bustle of camp. She is quite fond of all of the company, truly, and could not be more pleasantly surprised at their recent change of heart towards her. But sometimes all of the belching and scratching and lewd jokes can be a bit… _much_.

She finds a secluded clearing next to the bubbling stream, and a short time later, with her necessities seen to and dressed in blissfully dry undershirt and breeches, Ailväel pauses in the midst of repacking her saddlebag and frowns.

It is quiet. Far too quiet, for a forest at dusk. No insects, no animals, not so much as a nightingale from the treetops.

Her skin begins to prickle with unease, but it erupts into full blown panic when a breeze picks up and she catches an unmistakable stench.

Trolls.

She hurries back to camp, only to find the entire company gone. She curses at their recklessness and pauses to grab only a few of her knives. Her armor will have to be left behind, but she is not too upset about it since climbing trees is far easier when she is wearing less.

Luckily, this forest is old and the trees are close together, their branches intertwining. Navigating through the treetops is quite easy, especially when her ears pick up squawking that is irrefutably _hobbity_.

She winces; if they have Bilbo then things really are in a mess.

When she reaches the edge of the clearing, it is to find Bilbo facing down three trolls alone. Her worry sparks into anger, but she pushes it aside. Surely there is a good reason the most vulnerable member of the company has been left to fend for himself.

Frantically, she starts to strategize – but then she almost leaps off her branch when Bilbo is lifted off the ground for snacking.

Kíli, bursting through the brush with swagger and a devilish grin, gets Bilbo released just before the rest of the dwarves surge into the clearing.

Ailväel resists the urge to smack her face into the tree trunk. This is not going to end well, and that means _she_ will have to rescue twelve dwarves and a hobbit from three trolls.

 _Gandalf, you pick the most ridiculous times to run off,_ she thinks grumpily even as she works her way through the branches to the other side of the clearing.

/

Thorin has been in many humbling circumstances in his life, but trussed up in a sack waiting for trolls to decide on how to cook him is certainly at the top of the list.

And all for the ponies, too. Honestly, he would rather walk to the Mountain than cross paths with these creatures; _what_ was the hobbit thinking?

Truth be told, the amount of surprise on their burglar’s face when they laid down their weapons is rather insulting. Friends they may not be, but surely they have not given Master Baggins the impression that they wished he were dead?

Well…Thorin shifts uncomfortably as Bifur’s elbow digs into his side. Perhaps he has given the hobbit a bit of a cold shoulder. He admits that he has painted Bilbo and Ailväel with the same brush, deeming them untrustworthy regardless of how they’ve charmed the company.

But still – that does not mean Thorin wishes the hobbit harm.

Speaking of…he sits up suddenly.

Where _is_ Ailväel?

The thought has no sooner occurred to him than one of the trolls pick up Bombur, talking about _nice raw, crunchy Dwa_ r _f_ , and Thorin chokes on horror.

“Not that one!”

Everyone in the clearing, from the three trolls to the smallest insect scuttling in the dirt, stops and looks as scruffy, filthy little Bilbo Baggins awkwardly hops to his feet.

“Not that one, you can’t eat that one!”

“Why not?” The biggest troll demands.

“He….he’s infected! He’s got, erm. He’s got worms! In his…tubes!”

The troll promptly drops Bombur in disgust; a blessing, since they’re not going to eat an infected dwarf, and a curse, because he drops Bombur directly on top of Fíli – and Thorin’s feet.

Once the pain subsides, he takes a moment – only a moment, mind – to be impressed with Bilbo’s quick thinking. He’s got the trolls halfway convinced into letting the dwarves go, only the dwarves themselves are not helping.

“Parasites?” Kíli cries, mortally offended. “We don’t have parasites!”

The trolls are conversing intently – and _very_ loudly – when Ailväel’s whereabouts suddenly become clear.

From the trees behind them, an acorn sails through the air and thumps hard into the back of Kíli’s head; to his credit, the lad does not even turn around and look for the culprit. Instead he frowns, and a second later his eyes widen. Suddenly the lot of them are babbling, shouting as to who has the biggest parasites.

Thorin would laugh himself to tears if it weren’t their lives hanging in the balance.

The biggest troll, however, is not convinced.

“Wha’ d’you think we are? Takin’ us fer fools!” He pokes Bilbo in the chest, and the hobbit stumbles back, protesting.

“Shaddup!” The cook rams the other’s head with his ladle, immediately provoking a scuffle.

Thorin nearly jumps out of his skin when a small hand claps over his mouth. Even in such an undignified position, he doesn’t hesitate to glare at Ailväel. She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t look at _me_ ,” she responds in a whisper, releasing him and pointing her knife at him. “I wasn’t involved in this mess.”

She’s only half dressed in a loose, untucked shirt and her trousers – no armor or jerkin. The result has him sternly keeping his eyes on her face as she hunches over to cut through the rope tying his sack shut. He can only see three or four of her knives, and presumes that most of them are still back at camp. But he is not worried – Ailväel with one dagger would be more than sufficient.

She surveys the pile silently, hanging back in the shadows of a nearby boulder, while the trolls continue in their bickering. Whenever they are sufficiently distracted, Ailväel darts forward, choosing which ones go first deliberately, based on the way they’re piled, which is a boon because Thorin can’t see half of them over Bombur’s rump.

Ailväel cuts the rope restraining Kíli, but one of his arms is stuck

“For Mahal’s sake, Kíli, hurry,” she mutters, tugging harder and pushing Balin’s feet out of the way.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Kíli huffs back; his arm suddenly pops loose of the sack and with the unexpected momentum, his elbow catches Ailväel right in the nose.

To her credit, she does not make a peep, but the force of the blow knocks her onto her backside and she sits, dazed, for just a second too long.

“Oi!”

Startled, Ailväel jerks to her feet and wipes the blood from her face. Thorin has to admit she handles the six beady eyes aimed at her with remarkable poise.

“Yes, my good sirs?” She even _bows_ , albeit mockingly.

“Oooh, it’s a girl!” the smallest troll squeals excitedly. “We ain’t ‘ad one o’ them fer _ages!_ ”

“Got more fat on ‘em,” the cook agrees, as the big one takes a menacing step in their direction. “She’ll taste best baked, she will.”

Ailväel frowns and tilts her head. “But…how will you know when I’m done if you can’t see?”

That makes everyone squint at her, including Thorin.

But then she pulls her arm back, and the knife in her hand lands with squelching, blood-bursting accuracy in the cook’s eye.

The other two stare at their howling chef for a moment too long, and by the time they look back at her, Ailväel is on the other side of the clearing, another one of her knives in Kíli’s freed hand as he cuts the rest of them loose. Thorin sees her darting between the trolls’ legs (the cook having joined in after the initial pain from having his eye stabbed had passed). She has grabbed someone’s sword – Kíli’s, he thinks – but Thorin is distracted by the feeling returning to his legs as Bombur finally shifts off of them. A sudden, pained yelp snatches his attention back to the trolls.

The smaller one has two deep gashes on his back, as well as nasty cut across his face. But Ailväel didn’t get a chance to finish him off, and the reason is painfully clear – the biggest troll has her in his fist.

The cook, enraged and dripping blood everywhere, demands his brother rip Ailväel’s head off. Thorin panics again, because while his company is much closer to freedom than they were ten minutes ago, they are not able to help her. And she cannot help herself, since they have her arms pinned to her sides. She’s halfway to the troll’s mouth when another, much more welcome voice booms across the clearing.

“The dawn take you all!”

Gandalf raps his staff smartly on the boulder, sunshine fills the clearing, and the trolls howl as their skin cracks and crumbles, before they still.

They all cheer, except for Thorin because he has just pulled Bombur to his feet and that takes the breath out of anyone; Kíli and Óin hurriedly start dousing the fire, so Thorin wanders over to the statues. Ailväel is still in the troll’s grasp, and he can only imagine how grumpy she is going to be about it.

“What an odd daisy this troll managed to find,” he calls, pleased with his own wit. She _does_ look like a wildflower, her feet dangling in the open air and her head slumped over the stone fist –

He frowns.

“Miss Ailväel?”

Her head lifts, slowly, but he sees her lips move soundlessly, and he panics for the third (and hopefully final) time.

“Dwalin!”

The spit is only just being lifted down from over the doused fire, but all of them look up at his bark. “She’s suffocating, the troll tightened his grip just as the sun hit him.”

Dwalin grumbles, but he’s the first one cut loose and Bifur hands him his hammer; Nori and Bofur duck underneath and wrap their arms around her legs. It takes three swings, but at last the stone arm of the troll cracks through, and Ailväel tumbles into their arms amidst the rubble and with a hacking rasp of breath. Bofur and Nori steady her, but she almost immediately pushes them away. Óin starts to bustle forward but she waves him off as she coughs and sputters.

She stands there for a moment or two, chest heaving and her hands on her bent knees.

“Durin’s beard!” Fíli smacks his brother’s chest. “Uncle wasn’t joking, Miss Ailväel, your aim is _incredible_ – “

“ _You two_.” Ailväel sounds a little raspier than normal, but otherwise seems no worse for the wear as she straightens to her full height. Fíli and Kíli’s smiles slowly fade, which is entirely understandable considering the glare Ailväel is currently pinning them under.

“You two,” she repeats, stepping closer to them. “I was gone for five minutes – _five_. I didn’t even go to bathe, I went to pee behind a bush and change into some dry clothes, and I come back and the entire bloody company is gone, off fixing your mess!”

“We – “ Kíli starts, but Ailväel cuts him off.

“What in name of Mahal’s effin’ hammer were you thinking? Sending Bilbo in, alone, to face three trolls! Neither of you would be stupid enough to do such a thing, and _you_ know how to fight! What was he supposed to do?”

“We didn’t mean for him to fight them.” Kíli scuffs the toe of his boot in the dirt. “Just to rescue the ponies.”

“He nearly did it, too,” Fíli offers, sounding like a small lad.

“Yes, and the rest of you were nearly troll feed,” Ailväel snaps. She huffs, and takes one step backwards. “Lads, you’re both fine warriors, there’s no question that you know how to use those.” She points at their weapons. “But we’d all be grateful if you’d learn to use your heads while you’re at it.”

The company is, collectively, stunned speechless; Thorin doesn’t quite know how to feel – defensive, because those two stubborn, rash lads are his nephews, his _sons_ , and they’re both currently hanging their heads. But he also feels grateful, because Ailväel is not wrong, and he grows weary at times from being their only disciplinarian.

But under it all is concern, because her temper does not conceal the way Ailväel is holding her side.

“Miss Ailväel, find a place to sit. Óin needs to look at your ribs.”

She’s still fuming, but she only glances at him. “Nothing’s broken,” she replies, surly.

“Let me be the judge o’ that, lass.” Óin gently but firmly herds her over to a small boulder where she can sit. It is not until the healer rucks up her shirt, revealing smooth brown skin, that Thorin realizes he is staring.

His nephews are staring too, but they look contrite and like they are about to beg for another batch of trolls just for a chance to prove themselves. He almost rolls his eyes; they can grovel later.

“Fíli, Kíli, go get everyone’s things from camp.” His nephews blush deeper still and scurry off to do his bidding.

“All else aside, lass, that _was_ some fine aim.” Bofur nods cheerfully.

The ghost of a smile flits at Ailväel’s mouth before Óin pokes at a sore spot and she grimaces. “Thank you, Bofur.”

Thorin would obviously rather not any of his company come to harm, but there is something about the sight of this strange, maddening woman scraped up and bloody that makes him wish the trolls were still alive, and entirely at his mercy. He sees Balin eyeing him curiously, and knows he is being obvious; thankfully a distraction appears in the form of an (almost too late) wizard.

“Where were _you_ , if I may ask?” His tone is a little brusquer than he intended, but Gandalf does not even bat an eye.

“Looking ahead.”

“And what brought you back?”

“ _Looking behind_ ,” Ailväel answers in a saucy imitation of the wizard that Thorin engraves in his memory so he can laugh about it later, privately. Gandalf frowns at her, but without any real heat.

“You do not think you were too hard on those lads, do you, my dear?”

“Of course not,” is the stout answer, just before she hisses in response to a poultice Óin is spreading on some scrapes the stone left across her upper back. “They are smart lads, but they must act like it if they aim to survive this journey. And had I been too harsh, their uncle would have been the first to say so.”

Well.

There is not much of an argument for that, but Thorin still keeps his eyes averted as he pretends not to see the way Ailväel is holding her shirt up around her bosom.

The company are scurrying about, gathering their clothes and weapons that Kíli and Fíli have retrieved. Dwalin has Thorin’s things piled nearby, and he gratefully pulls his clothes back on.

Once he is clothed and armed once more, he sees Gandalf surveying the statues.

“They must have come down from the Ettinmoores,” the wizard muses.

“Let us hope not,” Ailväel says, appearing from behind him. She is still in just her shirt and trousers, looking quite roughened with the blood from Kíli’s elbowing dried under her nose. “Mountain trolls have not ventured this far south since…”

She trails off, but Thorin and Gandalf both catch her meaning without having to hear the words. Thorin shakes off the dreadful possibility and peers into the woods around them. “They could not have moved in daylight…”

Ailväel scoffs. “You want to go looking for their cave? After _that_ near catastrophe?”

“Typically, whatever trolls bring back to their lair is already dead. And you had things well… _in hand_ , did you not?”

The joke (a bad one, but still) tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, and the _hmph_ Ailväel makes before stomping past him into the trees, along with the way the corners of her mouth twitch, is all the payoff he needs.

He turns from watching her to see Gandalf and Dwalin both staring at him – the former in utter stupefaction, the latter in disgust.

“I canna _believe_ you,” Dwalin snarls, before he follows Ailväel towards the cave.

Bewildered, Thorin turns to the wizard. “What?”

To his discomfort, Tharkûn peers at him with a look that sees far too much. “Hm. Well, I must say, this is a most unexpected turn of events.”

“ _What is?_ ” Thorin snaps.

“In due time, Thorin. Come, let us see if those foul beasts have anything noteworthy hidden away.”

And with that, the wizard bustles off into the trees, leaving an irritated and confused Thorin with nothing to do but follow.

/

Ailväel hates trolls.

There are fouler beings in Middle Earth, yes, but trolls have the unfortunate habit of being both vicious and stupid, and there are few things she despises more than stupidity.

Which is why, she tells herself, she dressed down Fíli and Kíli the way she did. Mahal knows it was hard enough, with both of them resembling kicked puppies, but it was necessary. She is only glad their uncle agreed with her. At the beginning of their journey he likely would have had her head stuck on a spike.

The cave’s stench is absolutely vile, turning Bilbo green before they are even in sight of it. She almost laughs, but the smell makes her own breath hitch and that only makes her ribs twinge worse. So she moves to stand beside the hobbit, patting his shoulder.

“That was some very fine thinking you did, Master Baggins. I am impressed.”

“Oh, well.” He scuffs his toes sheepishly. “I’m afraid it was the opposite of fine thinking that got us into that predicament to start with.”

“Nonsense,” Ailväel tells him. “They should have known better. You’ve probably only ever seen drawings of trolls before today, I’d imagine.”

He chuckles. “True. Though I must say, charcoal and parchment don’t do them justice.”

She smiles, quite taken with this gentle little creature who must surely spend every waking moment in a state of terror, in this world with all its unknowns, but any further conversation is interrupted by Gandalf’s return.

“Here, Bilbo.” The tiny sword is placed into Bilbo’s hands. “This looks to be about your size.”

“Oh.” Bilbo can only stare. “I – Gandalf, I cannot accept this.”

“But of course you can,” is the wizard’s reply. “It was in the troll hoard, it is not as though we are stealing it.”

“Gandalf, I have never used a sword in my life,” Bilbo says helplessly.

“And I hope you never have to,” Gandalf says. “But remember this – true courage is not knowing when to take a life, but when to spare one.”

It is so similar to what he said to her, all those years ago, that for a moment Ailväel feels her throat tighten. But then _Tharkûn_ is turning to her, another blade being proffered, and she can only take it when it is thrust into her hands.

“Surely you do not think that I am lacking for weaponry.”

Gandalf chuckles. “Certainly not, my dear. But I believe this will suit you better than the one you currently wield.”

It is a sword, almost too long for her except for its slim build that redeems it. Light as air, bright as stars – Ailväel has heard a great many things about elvish blades, all of which have only whetted her appetite to one day possess one. Holding such a sword in her hand is almost overwhelming.

“You found this in a troll hoard?” she murmurs, taking a few practice swings. It literally _hums_ through the air, and she catches even Thorin giving it an approving glance.

“Mm. Read the inscription.”

She shoots him a look – he knows perfectly well what the company’s reaction will be when they discover that she is fluent in Sindarin – but squints at the blade anyway, and laughs, almost bitterly, a moment later.

“Again with your word games and flattery, old man. But you are right; it is a fine blade. I thank you.”

Gandalf peers down at her. “It is more fitting than you think, Ailväel. Do not doubt yourself.”

Her throat feels tight; completely at a loss, she lowers her gaze to the sword, watching it as it blurs in her vision. “ _Tharkûn_ – “

“Something’s coming!” Bofur suddenly shouts.

The trees crash, Dwalin swings his axe up – and abruptly halts the strike so as not to decapitate one of the rabbits pulling a sled.

“Radagast?” Ailväel says, at the same time as Gandalf, the latter hurrying over to greet the frantic brown wizard.

Thorin turns to her, pinning her with a glare.

“I notice you did not scold the burglar.”

She almost laughs.

“And what would I be scolding him for? Listening to your nephews?”

“It was foolish of them,” he admits. “But they are both young and impulsive still.”

“Aye. And I have no doubt this journey will cure them of that, and they will both be dwarves you and their mother will be proud of.” She shrugs. “I merely do not wish for anyone to get eaten in the process.”

He huffs. “Nor do I. But would it not be fair to reprimand all parties involved?”

“Master Oakenshield,” she says patiently. “Bilbo had naiveté as his excuse. I highly doubt that were we to encounter trolls again, he would make the same mistake twice.”

“Nor would the boys,” he growls, defensive.

“No,” she agrees gently. “No, they would not. But they have faced such things before, and should have known better than to make that mistake in the first place.”

His brow furrows, before he nods reluctantly. “I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am,” she says brightly, unfastening her old sword to replace it with the new. It is longer, and will take some getting used to in walking or running, but it is so light that she can almost forget it is there at all.

“An elvish weapon,” Thorin mutters, eyeing both her and his own blade with no small amount of distaste. “My grandfather would have cursed my ears off if he saw me wielding this.”

“Aye, my father would not be pleased either. But as long as it spills the blood of orcs and goblins, I do not see a purpose in fretting over who forged it.”

“Again, I must…reluctantly agree.” The corners of his mouth twitch, hidden beneath his thick beard. Ailväel is suddenly struck with the realization that she is wearing her breeches and the sleeveless shirt she wears as an undergarment. The laces are even halfway undone, and she’d taken off her bindings for the night.

She fights the urge to squirm; to his credit, Thorin’s eyes have not strayed below her collarbone (nor have anyone else’s, for that matter), but that does little to banish the feeling that she might as well have shown up to rescue them in the nude.

As she blushes harder at the thought, she is most relieved to see Fíli and Kíli appear, carrying the rest of her belongings and clothes, as well as the daggers that were scattered during the fight.

“Here, Miss Ailväel. While we’re waiting for those two to finish up.”

Ailväel glances over at the wizards, and sees Radagast hand some sort of long parcel to Tharkûn. The grey wizard unwraps it, and though she can only see a portion of her friend’s face, what she _does_ see is more than enough to knot up her stomach in apprehension.

She brings her attention back to the lads; Kíli looks almost as if he might cry. He shuffles forward to hand her the knife she pressed into his hand earlier.

“Here you are. It’s a fine blade; it cut through those ropes like soft cheese.”

“Thank you, lads.” She takes her things from them, making sure to smile kindly. “All’s well that ends well, aye? Mistakes are meant to be lessons, not millstones round your neck. Do better tomorrow.”

The relief on their faces is so apparent that she laughs; they both surge forward to give her a hug, only to be stopped short by their uncle.

“Miss Ailväel is wounded, and does not need your roughhousing. Show your gratitude for her forgiveness some other way.”

His nephews nod vigorously, and pick up every one of her daggers save the one Kíli just handed her and trot off to sharpen them.

Thorin, however, gives her a lingering glance before clearing his throat. “You forgive quickly.”

Ailväel shrugs. “There is no sense in holding a grudge; they are more eager to improve this way.”

Rather than the condescending response she expects, Thorin hums and scratches his beard. “Perhaps Dwalin would benefit from learning your tactics.”

She huffs a laugh as she organizes her pile of clothes and armor. “Please do tell him _that_ ; I am sure the company would benefit from such entertainment.” She spots Thorin looking at the dagger in her hand and then at all of the various sheaths for the rest of her blades quizzically.

“Is that the dagger we mustn’t mention in Dori’s presence?”

Surprised, she laughs. She forgot about that conversation at Bag End. “Aye. And if you wish to avoid scandalizing him, you’d better turn away while I put it back.”

Ailväel is immensely satisfied with the way his eyes widen before he clears his throat and turns on his heel, resolutely marching off to speak with Balin. She chuckles as she moves around one of the larger boulders for privacy so she can rebraid her hair and put the scandalous dagger away once she checks it.

Her grin fades, however, when she looks over at the stone trolls.

Ettinmoore trolls, this far south…it puts a nasty suspicion in her mind, one she is almost afraid to even consider.

She is lost in her rather dark thoughts, fiddling to make her armor fit comfortably, and buckling on the scabbards for her knives; she does not notice Radagast headed towards her until he is nearly at her elbow.

“Why, Miss Ailväel!” He looks delighted. “Gandalf said you were traveling with Master Oakenshield, how wonderful to see you!”

She cannot help but smile, even though the spot of bird droppings on his face is considerably bigger than the last time she saw him, and even though he positively _reeks_ of swamp. “Hello, my friend. I’ve missed your rabbits; they look to be in good health.”

“Oh yes, they’re doing quite well. Though I cannot say the same for the Greenwood.” He frowns sadly, stroking a small bird that has fluttered down to rest on his open palm. “The forest is sick, my dear. And with far fouler things than trolls.”

The knot of nerves in her belly only tightens.

“Radagast – “ she starts, only to be drowned out by a vicious, blood-curdling howl.

“Was – was that a wolf?” Bilbo stammers.

“No,” Balin answers nervously, as they all look around into the trees. “That is no wolf.”

A second later, and a snarling, gnashing mountain of blood-matted fur comes crashing through the trees.

/

Thorin’s sword _sings_ through the air, cuts deep into the warg’s thick hide and gets wedged in its neck. Another one of the beasts appears over his shoulder; Ailväel has an arrow nocked and drawn before he even sees her reach for the weapon. She and Kíli fire at the same time, and with a pained yelp the warg rolls to a stop at Dwalin’s feet, and meets its end at the blow of his hammer.

“Warg scouts,” Thorin spits, jerking his sword free. “Which means an orc pack is not far behind.”

“Orc pack?” Bilbo practically squeaks.

“Who did you tell of your quest, outside your kin?” Gandalf demands. Thorin’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head.

“No one.”

“Who?” the wizard thunders. A glance to his side shows that Ailväel looks more serious than he has ever seen her, and that realization alone sends a frisson of fear down his spine.

“No one, I swear!” Thorin scowls at her and the wizard. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

Another howl sounds, far too close for comfort.

“You are being hunted,” Gandalf states.

Dwalin spits a curse in Khuzdul. “We have to get out of here.”

“We can’t!” Ori cries. “The ponies bolted!”

“Well of course they bolted, there were three trolls nearby.” Ailväel snorts. She sheathes two daggers down the back of her shirt. “We’ll have to make a run for it. Our best chance of escape is that field southeast. There are rocks and numerous crevices we might hide in.” Ailväel shoves her twin daggers into the scabbards over her ribs.

“And what of the orcs?” This from Dwalin, who is looking at her like she’s gone mad.

She waves a hand. “Radagast can draw them off.” She is in the middle of strapping a knife to the inside of her thigh, and looks up when they all say nothing. At their stricken faces she explains, “Those are Rhosgobel rabbits. I’ve seen them outrun the fastest Gundabad wargs.”

“She’s right.” Radagast says briskly. He hurries over to his sled. “You lot better get a move on.”

There is a pause, but Thorin knows he has no choice. He gives the order, and Gandalf leads the company hurriedly through the trees. They all run after him, but Thorin waits to bring up the rear. He looks behind to see Ailväel kiss Radagast on his cheek (the one _not_ covered in bird droppings).

“Thank you, my friend. Be careful.”

The wizard pats her arm. “You as well, my dear.”

 She nods, and hurries to follow Thorin from the clearing outside the trolls’ cave.

“You had better be right about this.” He means it to come out sharp and biting, but somehow his tone sounds more like it does when he is talking to Dwalin – annoyed but fond. He tells himself it is because they are currently sprinting to catch up to the others.

Ailväel says nothing, only tugs the hobbit along as they clear the trees just in time to see the sled with its rabbits and mad ( _utterly_ mad, he’s even cackling as though he is enjoying himself) wizard blitz past.

As they dart between rocks and over ridges, Thorin is not aware of anything except the quick headcount he performs every time they pause in a new hiding spot. Everyone is present, and for the moment that is all that matters.

They are huddled beneath a stone ledge, with the heavy, snarling breaths of a warg and its rider sounding from above them, when it happens.

Thorin turns to look at Kíli, gesturing at the lad’s bow. But before he can make his order clear, he notices Ailväel over his nephew’s shoulder – and she is slowly inching her way down the line of the company, towards open grass.

He sees the bow in her hand, catches her eye and shakes his head viciously twice, clearly forbidding the _asinine_ idea she obviously has – but she shakes her own head in return, though there is a regretful look in her eyes. He tries to reach for her, but he cannot move that much without being spotted. And so he resigns himself to glaring as hotly and angrily as he knows how, for all the good it does.

Ailväel eases herself away from the rock, gently and silently brushing off Glóin’s grasping hand as he tries to pull her back to safety. She takes one, two steps backwards, and then draws, nocks, and fires an arrow so quickly that her entire arm is blurred with the movement.

The yelp from above them, followed by an orc’s snarl, reveals that she has hit her mark. Just when Thorin thinks she will rejoin them, she turns on her heel and sprints in the opposite direction.

There is a furious scrabbling of claws on rock, and the orc snarls and bellows at its comrades to come give chase. Ailväel is already a speck in the distance, hurtling over rocks and field as if there are wings attached to her feet. As Thorin watches she begins firing more arrows, leaving a trail of orc and warg bodies behind her as she runs.

A tug on his arm snaps his attention back to the company; Dwalin is watching her progress as well, but with the clear intention of taking advantage of their enemy’s distraction.

“C’mon,” his captain hisses, and tugs Thorin along after Gandalf. The wizard leads them through a senseless maze of rocks and field, until they reach a particularly tall boulder. Gandalf hurries towards it, bracing one hand on its surface and peering down at the base.

“Quickly, now. All of you.”

Thorin frowns, but Bofur – once more proving himself as the most trusting of the group – trots forward and disappears down the hole at the wizard’s feet.

“ _Tharkûn_ , what – “

Gandalf does not so much as look at him, instead ushering the company down the strange escape route. When both of his nephews have vanished from sight, Thorin tries to ask once again. But all he receives is a shove to follow his company; he grits his teeth and digs his heels in.

“I demand to know where you are leading us.”

Gandalf huffs impatiently. “We do not have the time to discuss this! Go, now!”

“Is there a worse enemy awaiting us?”

Gandalf mutters something akin to _you will certainly think so_ , but Thorin is not given a chance to question him on it. A warg bursts through the trees, snarling and with its mean eyes trained on him.

Thorin barely has time to raise his sword when the warg jerks, as though pulled by a string, and crumples where it stands. Thorin stares at the knife imbedded in its skull, and watches as Ailväel appears to tug it out, only to use the same blade to promptly rip an orc’s throat clean through.

Black blood is splashed down her arms, her daggers glint in the sun, and there is a vicious curl to her lip that bodes ill for any orc or warg who dares face her. Her movements are quick and precise, her aim is impeccable. She runs one orc through the chest, yanks the blade out and has used it to kill two more before the first corpse has had time to fall to the ground.

He swallows. Those mercenaries were certainly like mere child’s play to her. Ailväel fights _dirty_ , he suddenly realizes.

She glances over, sees him watching, and scowls.

“Quit gawking at me, you idiot! Go!”

Gandalf tugs on his arm firmly, and this time Thorin slides down the incline to join the others. The wizard follows, which nearly makes Thorin climb right back up again – how can Gandalf call her his friend, claim to care for her as he does, and then simply leave her behind?

The snarling and howling above them gets louder, and then is suddenly joined by the thundering of hooves and bellowing horns.

An orc tumbles, still thrashing and snapping its teeth, down the incline. Thorin stops himself just in time from running it through when he sees small brown hands grasp the creature’s head and twist it sharply. There is a nasty crunching noise, and orc goes still and collapses on top of Ailväel. She quickly shoves it off and climbs to her feet.

“What in the name of _Mahal_ were you thinking?” he demands.

Ailväel blinks at him through the orc blood spattered on her face.

“I was thinking Radagast had clearly lost their interest, and we needed another diversion if we were to reach the hidden pass alive.”

True to her nature, she shows no offense at his brusque tone. Her strategy, while suicidal, was certainly beneficial for the company, and so he has little right to be angry with her.

Except there is a part of him that wonders if she is merely trying to gain his trust, the better to position herself later for the dagger between his ribs.

“Don’t fret so, Thorin.” Gandalf chuckles. “I suspect you enjoyed that, didn’t you my dear?”

Ailväel grins sheepishly. “It’s been too long since I’ve brought misery to orcs.”

“You called this the hidden pass,” Thorin cuts in, not in the mood for the two eccentrics. “Where does it lead?”

Ailväel’s smile vanishes, and she glances at the wizard uneasily. “Erm…”

“We best follow it and see,” Gandalf says with forced nonchalance.

Thorin can feel a vein pulsating in his temple, but the others are muttering and shuffling on down the path, away from the battle still raging above them.

Quite suddenly, another orc rolls down the slope. Ailväel’s arm twitches and her new elvish sword cleaves the foul creature nearly in two before it reaches the bottom.

“Gandalf,” she breathes, and though he cannot see her face Thorin can tell she is utterly entranced, like a child on the first morning of Yule. “This _blade_ – “

 **“** Think he was already dead, lass.” Dwalin pokes the orc’s head with distaste. To Thorin’s surprise, the burly dwarf seems amused by Ailväel’s eagerness. She shrugs.

“Slight chance he could still feel it. I’ll not deny myself an occasion to cause an orc some pain.”

Something catches Thorin’s eye and he tugs the arrow out of the orc’s neck, grimacing as black blood smears onto his fingers. The expression morphs into one of utter revulsion as he inspects the arrowhead.

“Elves.”

Dwalin hisses, but Thorin realizes that two members of their company look entirely unsurprised. Before he can say anything, Ailväel sheathes her cleaned sword.

“We had best follow the path, gentlemen. I don’t fancy any orc stragglers stumbling down this way.”

He bites back his suspicion, though it grows stronger with every step he takes down the narrow path through the rock. When the path opens out of a cliff and he sees the sight before him, he does not bother to squash the curse before it comes out of his mouth. Balin frowns disapprovingly, but not as sharply as usual. Even he, with all his mild-mannered diplomacy, does not have much use for elves.

“You did this on purpose,” Thorin accuses the wizard. Before Gandalf can say anything, Ailväel snorts.

“Of course he did. It was not as though you were going to listen to reason.”

His glare would send even Dwalin running, but she cocks one hip and waits patiently for his anger to subside enough for him to form complete sentences.

“Our enemy – “

“Is in the Greenwood, not here in the valley.” Ailväel answers calmly. Something in her eyes makes him pause, though his vision is still tinged red around the edges.

She takes a step closer to him. “Master Oakenshield, would you say there are good dwarves in Middle Earth?”

He bristles, both in surprise and indignation. He opens his mouth furiously, but she shakes her head.

“Just answer the question,” she insists patiently.

He huffs and does not spare the sarcasm. “Aye, I would say there are good dwarves in Middle Earth.”

“Would you say there are bad dwarves in Middle Earth?”

Thorin blinks, almost too surprised to remember he is angry. “I – “ he falters, remembering how the gold would reflect in his grandfather’s eyes, the way the old councilors (save Balin) would whisper conspiracies while the King counted his coins. “I do not deny there are dwarves who are lacking in character.”

Ailväel nods, having expected his answer. His heart sinks when he realizes her strategy.

“Then how can you deny that there are good and bad elves?”

His temper flares again, but weakly because he knows he cannot protest her logic. “Thranduil – “

“Is cowardly, and selfish.” Ailväel shrugs. “You will not catch me defending the Woodland’s king. I have no more love for him than you do. But this is not the Greenwood, and Lord Elrond is not Thranduil. He is far wiser, and possesses a much kinder heart.”

“You know him?” Balin asks.

“For many years now. He has no vendetta against dwarves – I suppose it is up to you lot to ensure that he feels that way after we depart this place.” She glances around at them all; more than one pair of boots shuffle awkwardly.

“On that note, you’d better leave all the talking to either me or Gandalf. Come along.”

/

 


	5. Chapter 5

Ailväel actually likes Rivendell.

For obvious reasons, she keeps this to herself. But she’s rather amused by the muttering and suspicious glaring that is going on all around her. Glóin is gripping his axe so tightly she won’t be surprised if he leaves finger-shaped dents in the handle. Even Bofur’s usual good cheer is subdued, judging by the uneasy way he is taking in his surroundings.

The only one who does not look convinced that they are in enemy territory is Bilbo. Their burglar is staring at the city in undisguised awe, completely enraptured. She smiles a bit to herself at the memory of her first time here.

Of course, that memory is not entirely a pleasant one, but enough good has come from it that the bitterness is mellowed somewhat.

At least, that is what she tells herself.

The air is cleaner here, soothing mind and soul both. _Magic_ , Estel whispered to her once when he was supposed to be asleep.

“You’ve been here before.”

Startled, Ailväel looks at Bilbo. “I did say I know Lord Elrond.”

“Not like this,” the hobbit insists. “You don’t look like you’re visiting somewhere you’ve visited before. You look like you’ve all but lived here.”

Rather alarmed that someone has seen through her façade so quickly, she attempts to change the subject.

“Ah, but Rivendell is like that, you see. Can’t you feel it?”

“The magic,” he says baldly. “Yes, of course I can feel it. But you –“

“Ailväel!”

She has barely a moment’s warning before two wiry arms twine about her middle and lift her right off her feet.

“Estel!” She squirms, ignoring the shocked glares from the company and the childish laughter in her ear as she is spun around through the air. “Put me down, you little imp!”

“You _promised_ ,” the voice in her ear says loudly, “that you would return before the spring thaw of _last_ year. And here it is, nearly autumn!”

At last, he puts her down, and Ailväel spins with a frown of her own in place – only to pause as her eyes meet the laces of a tunic. Her frown deepens with every inch her neck must tilt back until at last she’s looking into the laughing, blue-grey eyes that she knows so well.

“You grew,” she says accusingly. “Last time I was here I could look you in the eye.”

Estel laughs. “Serves you right, letting more than a year pass between visits!”

“I had business to see to, you overgrown twit. It wasn’t like I was avoiding you on purpose,” she grumbles through the fond smile that she cannot suppress. She hears more than one irritable throat clearing behind her, and sighs as she turns to face the music.

“Estel, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.” She gestures for the lad to come stand next to her, rather than behind. “Everyone – this is Estel.”

“And how do you know of Miss Ailväel?”

Thorin’s thunderous glare is of no surprise, and it only deepens when Estel drapes an affectionate arm around Ailväel’s shoulders.

“I have known her all my life,” the lad says, quite unaffected by Thorin’s wrath. “She is an adoptive sister, of a kind.”

“Sister, indeed,” Ailväel snorts, nudging him away with an elbow to his ribs. “Spinster aunt, more like. Flattery will get you nowhere, you know that.”

“Ah, but it might get _you_ somewhere when you have to explain to Lord Elrond why you brought an entire pack of orcs right to his doorstep. They even found two in the passage.”

Ailväel winces, and swears under her breath. “That was hardly _my_ fault, would they have rather me lead the foul things here alive?”

“We do not blame you for the orcs, Ailväel.”

Involuntarily, she freezes upon the new voice that rings from the steps leading up into the city. She glances up at Estel, and sees the unapologetic smirk on his face that lets her know she has not misheard.

Slowly, Ailväel turns to face the steps and tries very hard not to fidget under the two powerful gazes.

“My Lord Elrond,” she says, bowing deeply. “My Lady Galadriel.”

The elf woman’s mouth lifts in her usual indulgent smile. “It has been many months since you were last here, Ailväel. And even longer since you brought unannounced guests.”

She winces again, but clears her throat. “Er… yes. May I present the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin steps forward, lifting his chin haughtily after imitating a semblance of a bow.

“Welcome, Master Oakenshield. I knew your grandfather when he reigned under the Mountain,” Elrond says by way of greeting. “You have his bearing.”

Beside her, Thorin goes stiff as a board.

“Indeed? He made no mention of _you_.”

She rolls her eyes and nudges him, hard. “Be polite,” she hisses at his expression of shocked outrage. “At the very least until after I’ve had a bath and dinner.”

“Your rooms are as you left them,” Galadriel cuts in, reminding Ailväel that the hearing of elves is unsurpassed. She fights the blush in her cheeks as she nods gratefully.

Despite the fact that he has clearly just returned from battle, likely cleaning up the last of that orc pack, Elrond’s eyes twinkle in the way that means he is most certainly laughing at her. “Dinner will be served this evening, but someone will come to escort you. Until then, you are all welcome to make use of our baths and laundry.”

Servants glide forward, politely strained smiles in place. The company mutter and retain their tight hold on all weapons, but they follow amicably enough towards the guest houses. A tug on her arm brings her attention back to Estel (for Mahal’s sake, why is a lad of _ten_ so much taller than she is?).

“Why did you not return?” he asks. “I looked for you, every day. Then the summer rains came and I knew you must have been detained. You were not hurt, were you?”

“No,” she assures him. “But I did have business to see to, that could not wait. I am sorry to have broken my word.”

He grins. “I’ll forgive you if you tell me why you’re travelling with dwarves. You told me none of them liked you.”

“None of them _do_ like me, Estel.” Ailväel smiles to herself when he follows her in the direction of her rooms like a diligent pup. “I am working for them, is all.”

“So they’ll pay you?”

“In a sense,” she says in the voice that he knows means not to ask any more questions. “How much mischief did the two elvish terrors manage to get you into while I was away?”

Taking the unspoken rebuke with good humor, Estel launches into the latest antics of Elladan and Elrohir, telling the tales with his customary gusto; his impersonations of the twins have improved greatly since she last was here, and she is nearly in stitches by the time they reach her door.

“And then the eggs fell right out of Elladan’s robes, and one of them splattered all over Lady Galadriel’s – “

Estel swallows whatever he was about to say, and she can scarcely blame him: Thorin’s murderous scowl is a terrifying sight to behold.

She sighs. “Estel, I will see you at dinner, and then we shall train where you can finish telling me what I’ve missed.”

The boy nods, and with one last wide-eyed glance at her, scurries away. Ailväel takes a deep breath before facing an angry dwarf (again).

/

Thorin is honestly rather proud of himself for not erupting in the presence of the company and their hosts.

As soon as the lad has disappeared around the corner, he opens his mouth. He has been preparing his tirade ever since Rivendell appeared before them on the cliff.

“Come in, then.”

Thorin pauses, his anger somewhat tempered by confusion. She rolls her eyes.

“I am well aware that I owe you an explanation.”

He refrains from saying something decidedly rude, and follows her inside, waiting until she closes the door.

“Your son?”

Ailväel pauses in removing her quiver and bow. “What?”

“The lad,” he snaps. “Is he your son?”

Utterly bewildered, she shakes her head. “Did you not hear him call me his sister?”

He did, but quite forgot in his temper. He scowls when she laughs at his disgruntled huff.

“Did you really think Estel was my son?”

“Of course not, you are not tall enough to be his blood kin,” he retorts. Some childish part of him is delighted when her eyes narrow.

“You have questions, I presume?”

“Aye.” He folds his arms across his chest. “How long have you known Elrond?”

Ailväel drops her gauntlets onto a chaise in front of the windows, giving him an unimpressed look. “ _Lord_ Elrond. He has shown you nothing but respect and hospitality thus far, even you cannot argue with that. And I have known him for ten years.”

His next question vanishes on his tongue, even as she unlaces her doublet, revealing her sweat-stained tunic.

“ _What_ are you doing?” He sounds like he is Fíli’s age once more, but he cannot quite help it.

She squints at him. “Taking a bath. I have no desire to eat my supper whilst covered in orc blood.”

Annoyed, Thorin huffs. “I suppose we shall continue this discussion at another time, then?”

Ailväel shrugs. “If you like. But there is a screen, and normally whenever we are upset with one another our voices carry quite well.”

Belatedly, he realizes his mouth is hanging open; when he recovers his powers of speech she has already vanished behind the screen, around the edge of which he can now see part of what is unmistakably a tub of water.

Shaking himself back to the initial reason for this conversation, he clears his throat. “You have made no mention of knowing him until now.”

Ailväel pokes her head out from behind the screen; Thorin clenches his jaw in an effort to keep his gaze away from her unbraided hair that swings down in a thick, dark curtain over her bare shoulder.

“When _would_ have been a good time to mention that I am welcome in the House of Elrond?”

He scowls; she smirks and disappears again. A moment later there are a series of splashing sounds and what is unmistakably a hiss of pain. Thorin belatedly remembers her injury from the trolls – as well as any she may have acquired from the orcs.

“Shall I send for Óin?”

She pauses, and he wonders if he has surprised her.

“No,” she says quietly. “I am fine. It is only a little sore.”

“He put some type of ointment on your back,” Thorin persists carefully. “He will be very displeased if it gets infected.”

Another pause, longer than the last, and finally she sighs. “Oh all right. But don’t go bothering him, he is likely taking his own bath right now. There is a cupboard by the window, of things I normally use whenever I am here. It is a small jar on the third shelf.”

Thorin obediently goes to fetch it, trying not to be angry that she is so familiar with this place and its inhabitants that she has her own chambers and medicinal supplies.

“Shall I put it beside your clothes?” he asks, looking around for them.

“No, just bring it here. I will put it on before I get out.”

Thorin stares at the screen for a moment before his feet remember how to work. When he comes around the screen she is tucked mostly beneath the water and suds, and she gestures to the table sitting beside the tub with her chin.

“Just there will do. Thank you.”

Thorin sets down the jar and beats a hasty retreat, all while firmly ignoring every inch of glistening brown skin that peeks through the bubbles. He clears his throat roughly and forces himself to concentrate.

“How did you meet Lord Elrond? What first brought you to Rivendell?”

Ailväel hesitates again; it suddenly occurs to him that _she_ may not trust _him_ with matters that are clearly very personal to her.

“I brought Estel here, as an infant. I was present when his mother died. With her last breaths, she begged me to bring him here. I could not refuse her, and in the time it took to journey to the Valley with a babe, Estel grew attached to me. I could not leave immediately. And somehow I just…never stopped coming back.”

Thorin thinks back to the pure, childish joy that lit Estel’s face as he held Ailväel off the ground, to the affectionate way she nudged the lad in the ribs. He wishes he could be irritated that she has so effectively rid him of all just cause to be angry.

“He is very fond of you.” He cannot even sound anything more than irritated, and he knows she can tell.

There is a smile in Ailväel’s voice. “And I him, for all the trouble he manages to attract. Though I suppose it is not entirely his fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lord Elrond’s twin sons,” she says, and Thorin is delighted to hear unrestrained disgust in her tone. “They are mischief incarnate, and always manage to drag Estel into their antics.”

“You do not like them?”

“I have been known to avoid their company in favor of spending the entire day shoveling out the stables.”

Thorin snorts, he cannot help it. Ailväel chuckles too, before she grunts in discomfort.

He pauses, not wanting to press. “Óin?”

“No,” she says, voice strained. “It’s…only…a bit harder to reach than I thought – _ouch_ – “

“You are going to make it worse,” he says, exasperated.

She snaps, “You come do it then, since you’re the expert.”

A long, loud silence makes Thorin’s ears go hot. He swallows, takes off his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and comes around the screen once more.

Ailväel is leaning up this time, chest to her knees. From behind, all he can see is her hair, fanned out in the water like black ink. She gathers it to one side, revealing the brown expanse of her back that is not nearly as smooth and unblemished as he expected.

The injury currently under question is nothing more than a deep scratch on her upper back. It is just low enough to prevent her from reaching it on her own, and looks well cleaned. But he hardly notices it for the rest.

Her back is a patchwork of scars – old ones, running in harsh, jagged lines across the skin. They are puckered and raised, which he knows means the original wounds were deep and horrifically painful.

Thorin swallows against the sudden nausea; Ailväel glances over her shoulder at him, and gives a rueful smile.

“I told you,” she says, cautiously. “I was captured by orcs.”

The wary look in her eyes brings his faculties back, and he clears his throat before kneeling behind the tub with the jar of ointment. It smells of various herbs, sharp and clean. Ailväel flinches just a little at the first touch of his hand, but he can feel her relaxing slowly as he works the ointment into the wound.

“How long?” He did not mean for his voice to come out that way, soft and with no hint of gruffness anywhere, but she gives no indication that she has noticed.

“Six months,” she replies quietly. “Six months that they certainly enjoyed.”

He says nothing; he finishes applying the ointment and rests back on his heels. “Were you injured anywhere else?”

“No,” she says, after just enough hesitation.

Thorin narrows his eyes before throwing caution to the wind, and moving to kneel beside the tub rather than behind.

“Where?”

Ailväel gives him an irritated glare. “Do you impersonate a mother hen with the rest of your company?”

“No, because they are sensible enough to seek Óin’s help whenever they are injured.” He rests back on his heels and gives her a demurely smug look.

“Perhaps it is in an unmentionable place,” she challenges.

He raises an eyebrow. “You would have boxed my ears five minutes ago.”

She sighs, and one brown arm heaves out of the water. He nearly winces at the long, bloodied scrape that runs from wrist to elbow.

“Mahal,” he mutters, taking a generous scoop of the ointment in his hand. “Why did you say nothing of this earlier?”

Ailväel snorts. “I was busy trying to make sure you did not provoke our host to throwing us out on our ears.”

“I would not have gone that far,” he protests mildly. He automatically gentles his touch when she flinches. His other hand is curved gently around her wrist, holding the limb still. Her fingers drip water onto his clothes.

“You are too generous with yourself,” she quips back.

“But not generous enough with you.”

She stills. Thorin does not, keeping his eyes on his work even though he can see her looking at him at the edges of his vision.

He clears his throat, almost unspeakably embarrassed for his anger only a few moments ago. “I fear I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?”

He shrugs. “I still do not like you, nor trust you. But – “

“If you are saying that you would have treated me with greater respect and courtesy if you had known that I was captured and tortured by orcs, then you are apologizing for the wrong reasons.” Abruptly, she takes both her arm and the jar of ointment out of his hand, and sets the latter back on the table.

His mouth clicks shut as he realizes she has grossly misunderstood him; he is still searching for words when she snaps, “Might you go back behind the screen? I am tired of having warg drool in my hair.”

Thorin manages to hide his defensive irritation, somehow knowing why she has taken the meaning that she has, and clears his throat. “Would you rather I take my leave?”

Something in her eyes shifts – it might be anger, or gratitude, or laughter. He would have better luck reading Sindarin than reading this woman.

“Just around the screen will do.”

Nodding stiffly, he obeys. As she washes and rinses her hair, he knows it will be difficult to continue their conversation. So he takes the opportunity to peruse her chambers.

The fact that she even _has_ chambers here, in a city of elves, had his blood boiling just moments ago. But now…

With her age, and her line of work, it is understood that she has travelled far. Having a refuge to which she can go when she cannot make the journey back to the Iron Hills is sensible. He still does not like it. But he cannot deny it is wise.

And Lord Elrond has been…decent, thus far. He will take each interaction as it comes. For now, Ailväel seems to hold some place in the affections of the elf lord, and that might work to the company’s benefit.

A much larger splash comes from behind the screen, followed by the sound of bare feet on the marble floor.

“You still do not trust me, then.”

He frowns, ignoring the odd twinge of guilt he feels upon hearing the tired sadness in her voice.

“Would you trust me, if our situations were reversed?”

Ailväel snorts. “I do not think you would be trying as hard to convince me otherwise.”

Thorin feels his hackles rise upon the slight to his (hypothetical) honor. “Fighting three trolls does not earn my confidence.”

“Apparently not.” She comes around the screen, and his temper sparks back to life. She is wearing a clean tunic and trousers that are unmistakably dwarvish in design and make; she sees his scowl and gives him one of her own.

“They are some of my old garments from home. I keep a few things here, so that my other clothes can be washed before I leave again.”

Part of him recognizes the sensibility in that, and the other part of him is still itching for a row. “Anything else in this room from _home_?” he asks scathingly. “Military strategies, trade agreements, letters from the enemies of Lord Dáin?”

He would not be at all surprised to see literal sparks shoot from her eyes; she carefully takes a deep breath before she answers.

“Be glad you are my King, otherwise I’d cut out your tongue for insinuating that I have such low morals. I would sooner shave my head than betray my people. And they _are_ my people, whether you believe it or not.”

Thorin can only stare, even as her hair drips water onto her shoulder; the inner voice that sounds like Balin gives him a firm nudge towards apologizing.

“We shall see,” is all he can bring himself to say. With that, he takes his leave – and if he counts himself lucky to make it all the way out the door without something being thrown at his head…well. No one needs to know, do they?

/

The only good things she can say about dinner are that she supposes it could be going worse, and that at least Lady Galadriel is not present to see it.

Ailväel was raised by dwarves, after all, and so the company’s behavior is hardly surprising. And true, they have been rowdier than this many times on the road. But she is quite sure that not a single soul in the history of Middle Earth has ever once thrown food _here_.

Still, she fights a laugh at Lindir’s wince when Kíli’s éclair splatters over a statue.

Gandalf nudges Ailväel with a rather pointy elbow, bringing her attention back to her own table’s conversation, which is nothing more than a retelling of their journey thus far. “We encountered some mountain trolls, in the forest west of here.”

“They do not usually wander this far south,” Elrond replies, his brow furrowing.

“No,” Gandalf agrees, and proffers his sword. “We found these in their cave.”

Elrond takes the blade, eyebrows shooting up in interest. “This is Glamdring, Foehammer. Sword of the King of Gondolin.”

“Mm. Thorin, show him the blade you found.”

Thorin, who is sulking much like Estel used to when she would not let him play with her daggers, does not seem pleased to hand over his weapon. But he does; she can only guess that it is because he knows it is of Elvish make. Even his rudeness has its limits.

Elrond hums in pleased recognition. “Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver. A famous blade, forged by the High Elves of the west, my kin. May it serve you well.” He returns the blade to Thorin, who nods in surprised gratitude, only slightly tempered with the usual suspicion.

“Ailväel also found a new sword,” Gandalf adds.

She rolls her eyes as Elrond chuckles. “The last person in the company who needs another weapon. You spoil her, Mithrandir.”

“Well, someone ought to,” Gandalf grumbles. Ailväel gives him a sharp look, ignoring the curious gaze of Thorin from across the table as she hands her new blade to Elrond.

The elf lord’s eyes go wide with surprise. “This is Hadhafang, the Throng-Cleaver. It belonged to my grandmother, Idril.”

Ailväel wishes she could crawl under the table. To arrive in Rivendell, with a lost weapon of her host’s house strapped to her waist as though it belongs to her! She is devoutly thankful that Estel is not here; he would likely laugh himself out of his chair at her mortification. “It is my honor to return it to you, my lord.”

“Nonsense. It will serve you well, on this journey.”

“Lord Elrond,” she protests, refusing to take the blade again. “Surely your daughter can use it, if you have no need?”

Elrond raises his eyebrows. “Arwen is currently visiting her grandmother in Lorien. I daresay she would rather you were safe than for her to have a family heirloom. Besides,” he adds, pulling the blade half out of its sheath to peer at the inscription, “according to the sword itself, it suits you just as well as it would her. _Aen estar Hadhafang i chathol hen, thand arod dan i thang an i arwen_.”

Ailväel squirms; Thorin frowns and asks, “What does it mean?”

“This blade is called Hadhafang, a noble defense against the enemy throng,” Ailväel translates quickly, and places the sword on the ground by her chair.

To her surprise, he looks only curious rather than angry upon learning that she knows the elvish tongue. It would not have mattered regardless, as she could not risk Elrond or Gandalf giving him the translation in its entirety. As it is, she can feel both of her friends looking at her in confusion, but neither correct her.

In fact, they turn to have their own conversation, spoken in quiet murmurs. Ailväel takes the opportunity to lean forward on the pretense of getting more bread, and narrows her eyes up at Thorin.

“Do not look at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?” she asks innocently.

“Like I owe you yet another apology.”

“Well, you do,” she feels is only fair to point out.

He huffs, and attacks his salad as if the greens have insulted his mother. “I am sure that you are loyal. I have no doubt that you do not compromise your principles, and I was wrong to insinuate otherwise. I am sorry.”

Stubborn and proud he might be, but Thorin Oakenshield _does_ know how to apologize. She softens her glare and nods, opens her mouth to tell him all is forgiven –

“However,” he continues, ignoring her huff, “I _am_ unsure where those loyalties lie. And considering the short time we have known one another, I think that is quite reasonable.”

Ailväel blinks, unprepared for the…sense, with which he makes his argument. Could it be that he is simply unsure? That he is not being harsh because he does not like her, but because he does not know if he _can_ like her?

Unbidden, she remembers that night at the Prancing Pony – the thunder in his eyes, asking if she was injured before he let her return upstairs, his form sleeping across her threshold all night, the concerned touch at her elbow the next morning before they rejoined the others for breakfast.

And, more recently, the gentle questioning of her wounds. Kindness that was not born of pity, but of understanding.

(Even more vividly does she remember the soft, firm touch on her back and arm, and the way his deep voice lost all its edges; she puts down the strange fluttering that stirred in her belly as she sat there in the bath to exhaustion and hunger. It can never be anything else.)

No, she realizes. Thorin does not dislike her by default. He simply cannot afford to _like_ anyone by default. His hardships have not allowed him that generosity.

“But…” he sighs. “We gave you reason to easily mistake our caution for unkindness. And for that I am sorry.”

Speechless, Ailväel leans back in her chair and studies him with new eyes.

All her life, she has been judged at a moment’s glance. The dwarves of the Iron Hills look upon her with disdain, claiming she is an outsider no matter how many rituals and battles she goes through. When she travels, Men see her as either an evil influence on their Women or as little above a whore. To have someone sit before her as Oakenshield is now, saying that he is reserving judgment for what she does rather than what she is…

It is the most generous that anyone has ever been with her. Which, really, is more to the shame of most dwarves than it is to his credit. Regardless, she is not deaf to the humility and sincerity in his voice.

“Well, Master Oakenshield – “

He rolls his eyes. “Just Thorin will do. No need to fumble your way through such a mouthful every time you wish to shout at me.”

Ailväel wishes she were less delighted by that. Really, she does. But she is powerless to stop the grin from spreading across her face.

“Very well. Then no more of Miss Ailväel. It makes me feel old.”

Thorin quirks an eyebrow. “…you _are_ old.”

A bread roll hits him square in the nose, so quickly that no one sees it. He blinks, as though wondering if he imagined it. But she smirks at him over her goblet of wine, and his shock quickly morphs into a smirk of his own, wordlessly promising vengeance.

The resulting butterflies in her stomach make her wonder if being liked by Thorin Oakenshield is really such a good idea, after all.

/

Thorin wishes Rivendell were less tolerable. His list of things to complain about is growing alarmingly short.

True, the architecture is enough to give him a migraine, the music is irritatingly whimsical and light, with no beat or sense of rhythm…

Not to mention his belly still rumbles with hunger, despite the full course meal (so called) they were just treated to.

Regardless of all of that, however, the chance to eat in peace with his company close by, out of harm’s way is appreciated. And the promise of a bath afterwards is nothing to sneeze at, either.

Balin frowns at him, when he takes his leave of the company to go wash.

“Why didn’t you take your bath earlier, like the rest of us?”

Thorin pauses, suddenly realizing two things: one, it was wildly inappropriate for him to remain in the room while Ailväel bathed, regardless of her permission. And two…he may be in for a proper scolding if Balin ever finds out about it. “Er – “

“He was off questionin’ the woman,” Dwalin says. “What did ya fin’ out?”

Thorin considers, and says the first thing that comes to mind. “She has known the elf lord for ten years, when she brought the lad here as a babe.”

“Here?” Balin frowns. “I would think she would have taken him to Nardorahl, to be raised as she was.”

Thorin shrugs. “She said the boy’s mother asked her to bring him here, before she died. Ailväel could not refuse her.”

“Hm.” Balin tugs at his beard thoughtfully. “Perhaps she was a friend of Miss Ailväel’s.”

Dwalin grunts. “I don’ care when she met the elf lord. He seems mighty fond o’ her, is all.”

Thorin has to agree; Elrond’s affection for Ailväel is eerily similar to the way Thorin himself looks at Fíli and Kíli. And, he realizes, the way Gandalf looks at her too.

“Friends o’ tree shaggers,” Dwalin mutters. “Bet she even speaks their prissy language.”

“She does,” Thorin says, unsurprised to see the disapproving frowns on both his friends’ faces. “But it may work to our advantage. And it is hardly a useless skill for a spy.”

“True,” Balin murmurs, tugging at his beard again. His mind is clearly whirling at top speeds as they watch the lad Estel drag a laughing Ailväel out of sight. Distantly Thorin hears something mentioned about training grounds.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Dwalin assures him. Thorin grunts in agreement before seeking out the bathhouses. Thankfully there are soaps available that do not reek of flowers, and he feels much more himself with clean hair and a fresh change of clothes.

Finished, he sets off down the various corridors. The training grounds are not difficult to find – the cacophony of his company’s shouting and ringing steel is loud enough to guide him there without one wrong turn. He sighs irritably at the impressive facilities the elves have here; of course, there is an extensive archery range, which Kíli put to good use if he hasn’t already.

But for now, everyone’s attention is focused on one of the training rings. Ailväel is there, with Estel, patiently running him through a series of forms. It is immediately evident that the lad shows a great deal of promise in swordplay, even if his gangly limbs have not caught up to his natural talent. Thorin can also see that Ailväel is a good teacher – firm and clear in her directions, but also making it easy for her pupil to enjoy himself.

Everyone is so riveted on them both that Thorin is easily able to slip into a seat on the end next to Fíli. He watches the last few paces Ailväel puts the boy through, nodding in approval at his form.

“Very nice, Estel. But perhaps the _ereb dineth_ would like a challenge?”

Ailväel turns to face the other entrance with a scowl. “What do you two want?”

“Now, Ailväel.” One of the identical elves glides forward with a reproachful look that does nothing to smooth Ailväel’s ruffled feathers. “We are simply happy to see you. It has been too long.”

“Try not long enough,” she grumbles. “And anyway, I thought you lot have a skewed sense of time, what with being immortal and all?”

“So rude,” Elladan says, pouting. “I thought we were friends.”

“Are we going to fight or would you like for me to give you two a moment to compose a ballad about our _friendship?_ ”

With matching smirks, Elladan and his brother remove their long, flowing outer robes. Underneath they both are wearing shorter tunics and breeches, and they strap surprisingly lethal-looking swords to their hips.

Ailväel also removes her tunic, leaving her in just her sleeveless undershirt and leather jerkin. The scrape on her arm is prominent, but it seems to be causing her no difficulty as she takes a few practice swings with her new sword.

“Using our great-grandmother’s sword against us,” Elladan sighs. “It seems cruelly disrespectful, does it not, Elrohir?”

“Indeed.” Elrohir grins. “We already know you are our father’s favorite, there is no need for you to gloat.”

Ailväel rolls her eyes. “I am not your father’s favorite, you dimwitted leaf eaters.”

“ _Dimwitted?”_ Elladan repeats, outraged. He and his brother are closing in on her now. Estel is perched on a fence post so he can see clearly. The boy looks undoubtedly eager for them to start, which is all Thorin needs to guess that the coming fight will be one to remember.

He is not wrong.

Elladan and Elrohir, for all their mischievousness, are clearly able fighters. Like all elves they possess extraordinary strength and speed, and Thorin is gracious enough to admit that most people would find themselves utterly outclassed by only one of them, much less both.

Ailväel is not most people.

He suspected, watching her destroy those orcs earlier, that the very best of her skills were still not being put to use. But he was not expecting the small, quick-tempered woman of his company to fight like _this_.

She fights like a dwarf, using many basic techniques that Thorin both learned himself as a lad and has taught many others over the years, including his nephews. But there are a great many flourishes thrown in that are unmistakably elvish – no doubt learned here, in her matches against the twins.

The result is a pieced-together style that is uniquely and perfectly suited to her. Her new sword shines and floats through the air as though it is an extension of her arm; neither one of the twins can get the upper hand no matter how hard they press.

At one point they break apart, pacing a little and breathing heavily.

“You have gotten stronger, my lady!” one of them says. In all the excitement Thorin has quite lost track of which is which.

“Or maybe,” Ailväel says, twirling her sword flippantly, “You two have gotten slow and fat in your old age.”

Estel gasps delightedly, crowing with laughter. One of the twins looks over at the boy and rolls his eyes.

“Now look and see what you’ve done,” he admonishes. “You’re teaching him not to respect his elders, speaking to us like that.”

“He is ten years old and is still more responsible than the two of you put together,” Ailväel snorts. She yelps with laughter when the twin closest to her lunges, and parries it easily.

On and on the match goes; Thorin is not ashamed to admit that he is quite entranced, until a timid hand at his shoulder makes him jump slightly.

“Gandalf wants to see you and Master Balin, and Miss Ailväel.” Master Baggins looks uncertainly at the fight still going strong. Thorin sighs, but is surprised to see it is nearly dusk. Time has passed quickly while they have been entertained.

“Very well.” He stands, gets Balin’s attention with a jerk of his head, and then calls for Ailväel.

She ducks under a blade and gives him a grateful look for the reprieve.

“Lord Elrond wishes to speak with us.”

“What did you do this time?” One of the twins asks, sheathing his sword.

“I kept his thick-headed sons out of trouble for an evening,” she retorts. “I imagine he wants to thank me.” She puts her own blade away and gathers her tunic over one arm. She does not put it on again, likely feeling too warm for that, and shoves one of the twins hard enough to make him stumble as she passes by.

“Until next time, my lady!”

Ailväel rolls her eyes as she joins Thorin, Balin and Bilbo at the gate after saying farewell to Estel.

“Why do they call you that? My lady?” Bilbo asks.

“Because they are both idiots,” she says, loudly enough for said idiots to hear her. They both grin in response.

“That was most impressive, Miss Ailväel.” Balin smiles kindly at her. “How long have you been fighting them?”

“Ten years,” she says. “They have not aged a day, in either appearance or behavior.”

She is still breathing a little hard from exertion, which gives Thorin pause as he wonders if she has overdone herself with her injuries. Granted, they were not serious wounds, but that was no gentle sparring match. He eyes her carefully in the fading light; there is sweat gathered in the little hollow at the base of her throat, and strands of black hair have come free of her braid and are clinging to her neck and temples. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright – despite her gruff words, Ailväel enjoyed herself immensely.

Thorin swallows, hard, and looks ahead pointedly as the hobbit shows them the way down a corridor that is not wide enough for the four of them to walk abreast. Balin and Ailväel move to walk behind.

“What is this summons about, Bilbo?”

“Gandalf just said to fetch the three of you.” The hobbit shrugs. “He and Lord Elrond want to discuss something.”

Thorin feels his hackles go up, but then a finger pokes him hard between the shoulder blades. He looks behind him indignantly, only to receive a stern look.

“Be nice,” she admonishes.

“You worry for no reason,” Thorin protests. She snorts, and even Balin raises his eyebrows doubtfully. Thorin huffs. “Very well. I will make a noticeable effort.”

“I suppose we shall see, won’t we?” Balin says in a quiet voice that has Thorin’s eyes narrowing in betrayal. Ailväel sniggers but she sobers instantly when they enter the library, and the presence of the elf lord and wizard.

Thorin draws himself up, determined not to give ground regardless of how _nice_ he has to be. This elf may not be an enemy, but he is certainly not a friend.

/

To be quite honest, Ailväel does not understand why she is here.

Bilbo and Balin – certainly their presence is explainable. The former is tasked with breaking into the Mountain, and burglaring away the one thing that Smaug will be guarding with the most ferocity. The latter is an old advisor to Thorin, though it is to Thorin’s credit that he decided to show Elrond the map over his friend’s protests.

She shoots Gandalf more than one questioning look from where she stands in the shadows, while the moonlight sends ripples of reflected light through the waterfall and onto the stone floor. A breeze sends a mist from the water directly onto the balcony and makes her shiver uncomfortably; she pulls her tunic back on but does not fasten it shut. Hopefully this will be over soon and she can seek out her bed.

“What do you think, Miss Ailväel?”

Startled, she jerks her head up. Everyone is staring at her.

“What do I think about what?”

“The incantation on the map, of course,” Gandalf prompts amusedly.

“Oh. Er…” Thorin looks grumpier than usual, but that is to be expected. Ailväel shrugs. “I suppose it’s all rather straightforward. We’ve got quite the journey ahead of us, though, if we’re to be at the Mountain by Durin’s Day.”

Balin nods, lost deep in thought.

“What’s Durin’s Day?”

“Dwarvish holiday. It’s the last day of autumn.” Ailväel crosses her arms when the breeze picks up a bit. She’s bloody cold, and it is really too late to be up discussing quests and doors and deadlines. The night before was not restful either, since she was up dealing with the trolls. She can almost hear her bed calling to her.

“You mean to take back the mountain, then.” Elrond’s gaze is piercing as he hands Thorin the map.

Ailväel winces; she will hear about her misstep that has betrayed the quest later, she is sure of it.

“What of it?” Thorin demands imperiously.

“There are some who would not deem it wise,” Elrond says. He gives Ailväel a meaningful look – one that is filled with warning. She frowns, puzzled.

“Who?” Thorin demands.

“Significant members of the White Council, specifically.” Elrond looks at her again, and clarity hits her like a troll fist on the nose.

Suddenly, she is wide awake.

“It is their home, and Thorin’s birthright. He has every just cause to reclaim it,” Gandalf says, but he begins to hobble towards the door, thus ending their gathering. The others follow, though Thorin still looks angry enough to argue. Ailväel finds herself next to him and gives a firm nudge with her elbow.

“Not now,” she mutters. She is perfectly aware that Elrond can hear her, but this will all end better if the elf lord can at least pretend that he had no idea what they were planning.

Miraculously, Thorin does not question her. He falls silent and joins her, Balin and Bilbo as she leads them off down the corridor. Gandalf remains behind, still deep in discussion with Elrond.

Once they are out of sight, Thorin turns to Ailväel. “What is going on?”

“Saruman is here.” Ailväel has to stop herself from adding several expletives; the wizard has an uncanny ability to appear whenever he is being spoken of. Even thinking his name makes her feel twitchy.

“The White Wizard?” Balin asks, incredulous.

“Yes. And while Lord Elrond will merely advise you against your quest, the wizard will not hesitate to use force to stop you. We must leave, at first light.”

“That is mere hours from now,” Thorin protests. “The company needs rest.”

“If we tarry here we will never reach the Mountain,” Ailväel snaps. Her temper is betraying just how uneasy this new development has made her, but it cannot be helped. “He is not like Gandalf; he does not interfere out of interest for anyone’s individual wellbeing. He seeks to control all that happens in Middle Earth. And believe me, he will not want that dragon disturbed.”

“Then should we not leave now?” Bilbo looks appalled that anyone could be in the same class as Gandalf and yet be so unpleasant.

Ailväel shakes her head, struck with guilt over Estel’s doubtless disappointment come morning. “No, the Council will meet throughout the night. Gandalf will delay them long enough for us to slip away at dawn. We will have to leave without him, but he can catch up to us before we cross the mountains.”

Thorin stares at her, calculating and wary. She holds his gaze evenly, daring him to find the lie in her eyes. At long last, he nods.

“Very well. I will inform the company. Be ready to leave at daybreak.”

Ailväel trusts Bilbo to guide both dwarves back to the courtyard where the company has set up camp; she has no wish to sleep on the hard ground when there is a perfectly acceptable bed made ready for her.

She very nearly yelps in fright when she turns from her closed door to see the tall, pale figure standing by her bed.

“My Lady Galadriel.” She swallows the way her heart is pounding, and bows. “You…I did not know you sought my company. My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

There is no response, but she did not expect one. As is customary with the elf woman, Ailväel stands patiently and waits.

“Saruman knows of your plot, Ailväel.”

Every last drop of blood in her body goes ice-cold.

“How?” It is the only word that she can force past her dry tongue.

“He knows all,” Galadriel continues. “But, to his displeasure, the whereabouts of those you have stolen allude him still. You have done well in guarding them.”

“I am not their guardian,” Ailväel replies. She feels slightly dizzy, her entire world having shifted on its axis. “I only deliver them to safety and entrust my friend to do what he has promised.”

“Then you have chosen wisely in your friend.” Galadriel looks at her carefully. “But know that you will make a great many enemies, should you succeed. The King Under the Mountain could possibly be one of them.”

“I knew that well before I agreed to come on this quest. Thorin Oakenshield must live, and I will gladly sacrifice his good opinion if needs must.”

The elf woman hums, thoughtfully. “You are prepared to sacrifice a great deal more than that.”

Ailväel swallows. “I am.”

“You will likely be banished from your home, and your family will possibly never wish to see you again.” Galadriel tilts her head. “Do you care so little for your own happiness?”

“I have never been happy in a place, nor in the presence of any particular person. My greatest contentment has always been found when I know that the ones I love are safe.”

Galadriel is disappointed, but Ailväel will not be swayed. It has taken _years_ of planning to get her where she is now – perfectly placed to save the line of Durin. She has heard every argument there is from Gandalf already, not to mention all of the ones her own mind has presented her with. And yet she is surer than ever that her decision is the right one. There is not a being or force in all of Arda that could dissuade her now.

“Then I shall hope for you to succeed.” Galadriel moves towards the door, but stops to stroke Ailväel’s cheek. “Forgive me, _ereb brennil_ , if I also hope for you to find true happiness one day as well. Even if you do not think you deserve it.”

Ailväel is left alone in her dark room, heart thundering and eyes stinging, and with no hope of rest this night.

/

They leave Rivendell, as planned, just as dawn is sending the first hints of pink across the eastern sky. Thorin slept surprisingly well, which means he handles everyone’s reluctance over leaving so soon with considerable patience. His own nephews seem particularly glum, though Ailväel hurrying everyone along seems to convince them that their swift departure is not due to their uncle’s dislike of their host.

In all truth, Thorin suspects that Ailväel enjoys her time spent in Rivendell. After what he has seen of Estel’s life-long fondness for her, he cannot exactly blame Ailväel for savoring time spent with the lad. He is quite sure that if he pressed, she would admit to being saddened over leaving so soon.

There is no hint of melancholy on her face now, however; she is busy helping the hobbit over the steeper parts of the trail. Thorin takes the opportunity to watch her, as Balin is currently leading the company on. As she walks beside Bilbo, he sees her glance frequently over her shoulder, as though reassuring herself that their departure is going unnoticed.

The trail gets steeper and rockier as they draw near to the mountains. Ailväel remains strangely quiet even though the company’s spirits are as rambunctious as ever; at some point he finds himself next to her while they stop for water next to a stream, one of the last they’ll find before they reach the pass.

“You are quiet.”

She arches one eyebrow. “And you are not rejoicing over the fact.”

Thorin rolls his eyes. “I merely wanted to see if you were all right.”

Ailväel squints at him. “Why would I not be?”

He hesitates. Despite the tentative truce they reached in Rivendell, this is a slightly more personal topic than he thinks she will be glad to discuss with him.

At length he decides to risk it. “Estel. Will he not be disappointed to wake and see you gone?”

Ailväel actually looks embarrassed. “I snuck into his room before we left,” she mutters.

For some reason, Thorin is amused by that. But it must not show, because Ailväel quickly defends herself.

“He is young but also knows how to be discreet. I told him not to say anything.” She shrugs, looking down at her feet. Thorin can now see the sad tilt to the corners of her mouth. “I…could not bring myself to leave without saying goodbye.”

Thorin observes the way his nephews are splashing each other with water, their youthful laughter making everyone else smile.

“I once woke both of them in the wee hours of the morning, before I left with a trade caravan that would take me away from Ered Luin for six months.” He pauses, smiles a little at the memory. “My sister was not pleased; she nearly threw me out the door.”

Thorin does not look at her when he says this, but rather at the subject of his words. Fíli has Kíli in a headlock, with the younger squawking and flailing his arms as he tries to get free.

Ailväel is silent as well, until several moments later when she heaves a sigh. “For all they’re irksome little buggers, they have a knack of catching hold your heartstrings and tugging when it’s the most inconvenient.”

“That they do,” he agrees. He chances a peek in her direction. She no longer looks sad, so he feels safe in asking what has been on his mind since last night. “Why are you afraid of Saruman?”

She stiffens. “I am not afraid of him.”

“Of course not.” He snorts. “I suppose you are not afraid of anybody.”

To his great surprise, Ailväel turns to look at him. “No,” she says quietly. “That is not true either.”

He does not know what to say; eventually she takes pity on him and elaborates.

“Saruman and I…differ, in our opinions on various subjects.”

“Such as?”

“Such as whether or not it was best for me to bring Estel to Rivendell, rather than letting him perish in the wilderness next his mother’s body.”

Thorin manages not to recoil, but only just. “Does he have no mercy, to wish an orphaned babe the same fate as his parents?”

“His chief concern always has been and shall be for the well-being of Middle Earth as a whole. If that means an innocent life or two should be sacrificed along the way, then…” she shrugs.

“That is ridiculous,” he huffs angrily. “If innocent lives have come to mean so little, then what is it that makes this world worth protecting in the first place?”

Ailväel turns to him, wide eyed and – blushing?

“Yes,” she says, voice soft. “That is what I think too. And that is what I told him, and since Saruman is a person neither accustomed to nor appreciative of having his opinion challenged, I make a great deal of effort to avoid his company whenever possible.”

It suddenly hits him, what her expression means. She is _pleased_ , very much so, that his thoughts on the matter so closely align with her own. Distantly he wonders if that means he has impressed her, and abruptly cuts off that train of thought before it slides downhill any further.

“I imagine he avoids your company just as thoroughly, if he does not like people who argue with him.” Thorin, seeking a distraction, watches Fíli’s splash miss Kíli and hit Dwalin instead. Ailväel keeps her place at his side, looking surprisingly amused.

“Actually, the only reason I was not called to see him last night is because he did not know I was there. The others must have kept it from him.”

“Lord Elrond must be very fond of you indeed, to keep a secret from a wizard.”

“He…tolerates me, I suppose. More for Estel’s sake than anything else. And his daughter is a dear friend of mine. I am sorry she was not there.”

He does not get a chance to reply; Bofur suddenly appears on her other side with his usual grin.

“Lass, we were wonderin’ how you came to know that laddie back in Rivendell. He was awful fond of ye. Is he your kin?”

Ailväel smiles, and tells them all the story again of how she brought the babe to safety in the elvish city.

“Mighty fine thing you’ve done for him, lass.” Balin nods.

“Aye, he worships the ground you walk on.” Dori sends Nori a disapproving look. “As well he should, with you providing such a positive influence and all.”

Between one breath and the next, Ailväel’s expression shifts from fond to alarmed. “No, that’s not – “

“And teaching him to fight!” Fíli elbows his brother. “He’ll be running circles round those twins in no time if he gets to be half as good as you!”

Thorin seems to be the only one who has noticed how uncomfortable Ailväel looks. He almost thinks she looked more at ease back when they were all ignoring her.

“Gentlemen, please. I have not always been a good influence on the lad. Nor have I always protected him like I should.”

“Oh, but – “ Bofur teases, evidently tipping Ailväel’s patience over the breaking point.

“Do _not_ cast me a heroine,” she says, sharply enough to make Bofur withdraw his hand from her shoulder. “Especially in regards to Estel.”

An awkward pause stretches uncomfortably.

“Beggin’ pardon, lass,” he says uncertainly. “We didn’t mean – “

“I know,” she sighs. “It is…it is simply not my story to tell. Not yet, anyway. But whatever good I have done for Estel can never atone for the bad. And when he is old enough to learn the truth, he will no longer have anything to do with me.”

For a moment, the rest of the company simply stare at her and at each other.

“…then will the truth not hurt all the more, if it will cost him the bond he has with you?” Thorin asks carefully.

“Yes.” Ailväel shrugs. “Which is why I tried to avoid attachment at the beginning. But he was all alone as a child and that is something I understood quite well even if he was treated better than I was. I merely sought to comfort him, and he just…refused to go away, after that.”

Something about her bewildered, affectionate tone makes Thorin think of his forges back in Ered Luin, where a very young Fíli would come along while Dís was yet carrying Kíli in her womb. His young nephew always found a way to be too near the fire or sharp tools, and caused more than one near accident by being constantly underfoot.

Yet…he never sent Fíli away.

“He is lucky then, to have you in the meantime,” Balin says kindly.

Ailväel smiles sadly, and looks about keenly in an obvious change of topic. “Shall we make camp here, Thorin, or press on?”

He lets her get away with it; his company have forced her into more than one unpleasant conversation on this journey after all. “Here will do.”

With that, everyone breaks apart in their various duties in setting up the campsite. Dwalin helps him roll a fallen log into a prime spot for sitting on watch.

“Tha’s new.”

Thorin frowns at him. “What is?”

“Her, callin’ you Thorin. Been Master Oakenshield till now, innit?”

He deliberately makes an ordeal over making sure the log is settled well into the earth; his oldest friend has always been too perceptive for comfort. Dwalin, of course, notices his evasion tactics.

“Won’ have her disrespectin’ you.” Dwalin frowns darkly across the campsite, where Ailväel is helping Bifur hang the cooking pot over the fire pit.

“She hasn’t,” Thorin finally says. “I told her to call me such.”

Dwalin stares at hm. “Why?”

“Because I felt like it.” Thorin is aware that his tone is getting defensive, and also that Dwalin will not pay heed to that unspoken warning like others might. He finds it woefully ironic that Ailväel is the most similar to his friend in that regard.

“Wha’, so she’ll be more familiar with you when she stabs you in the back?”

“She won’t,” Thorin snaps.

Dwalin blinks, stunned. “You believe her, then.”

He does. He really does. Thorin swallows, overwhelmed with the magnitude of that realization before nodding.

Dwalin, to his credit, gives up the scolding. Instead he peers over at Ailväel once more, this time with a neutral expression rather than a suspicious one.

“Canna say I do,” he finally admits. “But I’m willin’ to give her a chance. You’re not the type to give your trust blindly.”

“That is all I could ask,” Thorin says, more relieved than he wants to admit even to himself.

“But,” Dwalin continues, “If I see one o’ her daggers pointed at your back, I’ll run her through meself.”

The mental image makes Thorin feel ill, but he swallows again and nods. “I’d expect nothing less, _kharmul_.”

As he watches Ailväel help Bombur chop potatoes into the stew pot, Thorin cannot help but think how certain he is, that Dwalin’s protection will not be necessary.

/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the movies, Hadhafang (the “Throng-cleaver”) is Elrond’s sword, but is also carried by Arwen when she brings Frodo to Rivendell in FotR. I’ve diverged from canon here and borrowed it, because it actually is suitable for Ailväel to carry even if she doesn’t think so. It will play a part in others learning Ailväel’s secret.
> 
> Which, by the way, I’d love to hear any guesses you have. 
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Ereb dineth: lonely bride  
> Ereb brennil: lonely lady
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Kharmul: brother


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. I've been caught up in Anne With An E (which, if you feel inclined to do so, we could use your signature on its petition for renewal), and I've also been working 50-60 hour weeks in addition to holiday festivities. Thank you all for your support and interest in, as well as your patience with this story.
> 
> Enjoy!

On their last night before beginning their climb up into the mountains, Thorin decides to make camp earlier than usual. This means Ailväel and Kíli have more time to hunt, which in turn makes the evening stew richer and meatier with the game they catch. It puts everyone into fine spirits, including Ailväel herself. Thorin tries not to be too pleased about this; the morale of all those who follow him is important, but Ailväel’s mood has been a little more glum of late and he knows her mind still lingers with Estel.

Ailväel helps Kíli prepare the game they catch for the stew, and once it is cooking she takes their burglar aside for his first sword lesson.

Thorin watches from a distance, pretending to be occupied with cleaning his own weapons. It is the same as he witnessed in Rivendell – Ailväel is an apt teacher, firm and clear in her directions but offering constructive criticism that has their hobbit standing a little taller and surer at the end of the lesson.

Thorin hides a smile; Ailväel has a unique talent to make even the most unlikely candidate feel confident on the field of battle, though he doubts Bilbo will be foolhardy enough to go hunting any orcs. It is to the company’s benefit that they will not have to chaperone him so closely any longer.

Supper is a quiet but pleasant affair, with the mountains tall at their backs and a serene sky darkening in the twilight above them. The fire crackles merrily in their midst; Thorin finds himself seated across from Ailväel and cannot remember why he used to see deceit or malice in her features. Her smiles and jokes are openly good-natured, the kindness that is so clearly within her is plain for all to see. How did he once think she meant him harm?

Dwalin and Bofur bring out their instruments after supper. At first, they play a few of the lighter tunes, those with which it is easier to clap and sing along. But inevitably they grow in their boisterousness, until Fíli at last bounds to his feet and offers a hand to Ailväel.

She looks surprised, but agrees quickly enough with a hesitant smile. She certainly knows the steps, he notices as she ducks and twirls around his nephew with ease. Dwalin and Bofur increase the tempo, which makes everyone roar in approval as Fíli spins Ailväel faster and faster, until the music reaches its climatic, abrupt end. The company applauds thunderously, but Thorin is most pleased to see the healthy flush to Ailväel’s cheeks, only just visible between the firelight and her dark skin.

“Wha’ about hobbit dances, Bilbo?” Bofur suddenly asks.

“Oh.” The hobbit puffs his pipe in the way they have come to learn means a story is on its way. “Hobbit dances usually have a great deal of meaning – we have different ones for birthdays, harvest and planting feasts, Yuletide, Midsummer’s Eve.”

“That sounds lovely,” Dori enthuses, seconded by nearly the entire company. “Could you show us?”

“Oh, but I’m afraid they all require a partner.”

Every pair of eyes turns to Ailväel.

She huffs and smiles. “I suppose I’ve got enough strength left for another. Though I’m sure to trample all over your poor feet.”

“Well, actually it’d be better if you took your boots off. Since it’s autumn, we’ll be doing a harvest dance. It’s important that we feel the earth beneath our feet, to thank it for its bounty and wish it a restful winter.”

Ailväel raises her brows, but bends to tug off her boots and thick socks all the same. Her feet are practically dainty by dwarvish standards; Thorin drags his feet away from the sight of her trouser hems hugging her toned calves, leaving her slim, dark ankles completely bare.

Bilbo leads her to a patch of grass that is clear of rocks or sticks, and asks Bofur for one of the songs played earlier in the evening. “It’s close enough in rhythm that it ought to do the trick.”

The music starts, and Bilbo slowly coaches Ailväel through an intricate set of twists and turns, dipping under one another’s arms and back out again. Once they have established the basic pattern, Bilbo nods to Bofur and Dwalin to pick up the pace.

There is something to be said for dancing in the firelight at dusk, Thorin muses. Ailväel’s smile flashes bright and sharp in the flickering shadows cast on her face, and though the music gets faster and faster her feet do not falter. Her hands are always precisely where Bilbo said for them to be, which makes the complex nature of the dance look only more mesmerizing as her braid twirls out behind her, the fire catching the black strands and making them shimmer a deep blue.

All too soon, the music is over. Ailväel laughs breathlessly.

“Oh, I might have to come to Hobbiton at the next harvest if that’s what I’ve been missing,” she gasps. “And you were right, Bilbo. I don’t think that would have been nearly as much fun if I had left my boots on.”

Bilbo smiles in agreement, thanking everyone for their participation. Ori immediately sets to peppering him with questions on the aforementioned hobbit festivals, which leaves Ailväel free to wander off to the side where her things are and start putting her boots back on. Her spot is reasonably close to Thorin’s, so he does not feel ridiculous for speaking to her.

“You are light on your feet, for a dwarf.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “It helps not to have so much bulk to carry about.”

He cannot hide the smirk at that, and he knows she sees it twist one side of his beard upwards. He turns his attention to Orcrist, and as a result his thoughts turn back to Rivendell.

“The inscription on your sword…what did Elrond mean, when he said it was fitting?”

She pauses for a very long time. “I have…seldom found myself in a fight where the numbers have been on my side. Going up against an _enemy throng_ is hardly an unusual occurrence for me.”

Thorin has the distinct impression that she is leaving out a great deal of information, but he has learned in the few cautious days since their truce not to press her. It is, after all, a courtesy she has always extended towards him, even in the early days when he treated her with blatant dislike.

And so, he hums as though he finds her answer satisfactory. “So he allowed you to keep his family’s blade in order to…even the odds in your favor?”

Ailväel chucks an acorn at him; the amused snap in her eyes only serving to soften the scowl that twists her mouth. “I think I have proven myself well able to handle even the most severe disadvantages, with or without that sword. Those brutes at the Prancing Pony were at least twice my size.”

“That is not saying much,” he cannot resist teasing, and relishes in the way her eyes narrow. “And if anything, they were at the disadvantage for underestimating you.”

He realizes as soon as the words leave his mouth that they strongly resemble a compliment. If the faint flush that sweeps up Ailväel’s cheekbones is anything to go by, that fact is not lost on her either. He clears his throat in a deliberate attempt to bring the conversation back to neutral ground.

“We will begin the climb in the morning.” Thorin looks up at the incline, sharp and rocky and more dangerous than he ever wanted anything near his nephews.

“Hmm.” To his surprise, Ailväel gives the mountainside a dirty look. “I wish we had time to make our way south, to the Fords of Isen.”

Thorin raises his gaze from Orcrist to stare at her in surprise. “You would go as far as Rohan?”

“To avoid the Misty Mountains and their damned caves, I’d go twice that distance,” she mutters darkly. “But with our deadline of Durin’s Day, this pass is our only option.”

“I’ve heard of the mountain caves,” Thorin agrees cautiously. “Surely with so many of us, the worst will be frightened off?”

She snorts. “One can only hope, though I personally find it stupid to. Gods forbid we find ourselves caught in a storm and in need of shelter.”

He returns to his sword; the elvish steel is spotless and gleaming. He gives the hilt one last rubdown with his cloth as he ponders his answer. “Between your experience and the eyes of the company, we will do our best to avoid any unsavory characters.”

It does not satisfy her, he can tell. But it is the best he can offer, and she knows it.

She nods. It is enough.

 

_ Rivendell _

No sooner has Saruman’s white cloak vanished around the corner than Gandalf finds himself receiving a lecture.

“Mithrandir, your mischievousness will prove to be your downfall,” Elrond tells him. “Sooner or later, Saruman will have had enough.”

“You are right,” Gandalf agrees, puffing his pipe absently. “But until then I will endeavor to only partake in that mischief which serves to protect Middle Earth.”

Elrond shakes his head fondly. “You cannot have expected him to have been anything but displeased; it was obvious that you deliberately stalled the meeting in order for Oakenshield and his companions to get away. Ailväel especially.”

“Ailväel has been subject to more than enough sermons by Saruman over the course of her life, and has long since abandoned her habit of listening to them meekly or quiety,” Gandalf says with a little more bite to his tone, as there always is when he is defending Ailväel. “I hardly think it is unreasonable to help us all avoid a shouting match that would ring from the rafters of your city.”

Elrond mutters under his breath, perusing his books.

Gandalf does not say anything else at first, but after a few moments of watching his pipe smoke rings dissolve, he sighs.

“I suppose you too think it is madness, to help Thorin reclaim the Mountain?”

Elrond frowns at him. “I think it was madness that drove the Mountain into the hands of a dragon to begin with. A sickness lies upon that treasure, Mithrandir. A sickness that the line of Durin has thus far proven to be unable to withstand. What makes you think Thorin Oakenshield will be any different?”

“Because he is Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf shrugs. “He does not speak of the wealth of Erebor like a dwarf who misses the feel of gold coins slipping between his fingers. He speaks instead of the warm halls, bountiful tables, and flourishing markets. Thorin does not long for gold. He longs for security and prosperity for his people. What fault can you find in him for that?”

“None,” Elrond says. “But can you say with utter certainty that he will not fall as Thrór did? And even if Oakenshield withstands the gold’s power, what of those who rule after him?”

Gandalf gnaws on his pipe stem for a moment. “That dragon cannot remain in the Mountain, Elrond. You know it as well as I.”

The already furrowed brow furrows deeper still. “Radagast has you seeing fleeting shadows at every turn, my friend. The ancient fortress is abandoned.”

“Radagast may be an eccentric fellow who does not bathe as often as he ought, but he is hardly a fool.” Gandalf huffs irritably. “Whatever it was that he saw, it was something of great power. At the very least we need to investigate.”

Elrond shoots him an amused glance. “I suppose you mean to wait for this venture until after you guide Oakenshield and his company safely through the mountains?”

“Ailväel will see they come to no harm,” Gandalf waves a hand unconcernedly even as he moves to stand and take his leave. “So long as they stay away from the goblin caves, which she does out of habit.”

“You sound as though you think Thorin Oakenshield will listen to her.”

“Do you know, I think he will? They have…reached an understanding, as of late.” Gandalf hides his smirk in his beard, thinking of the way Ailväel blushed when Thorin teased her about the trolls.

A development that was very much unforeseen, but promises to be the most entertaining part of this entire venture.

Certainly more so than Bilbo’s fretting over a handkerchief, in any case.

Safely out of earshot, Gandalf chuckles to himself.

Oh yes. A _very_ entertaining situation indeed.

__

_ The Misty Mountains _

Not for the first time, Ailväel curses the circumstances which have necessitated her presence on this journey. Were it not for the enemies of the Line of Durin, she would be wandering the halls of Rivendell, teaching Estel how to swear in Khuzdul and training against the twins.

But no. No, Ailväel is needed here – on the side of a mountain with scant inches of rock between her feet and plummeting to her death, and spitting rain water out of her mouth.

Thorin’s stubborn figure can be made out at the head of their troop, though his hair is matted to his head like everyone else’s in this downpour. Ailväel takes a petty moment to relish the thought that even the _King Under the Mountain’s_ undergarments are soaked just like hers are, which means he too will deal with chafing come the morrow. The thought almost makes up for the numerous times she has nearly slipped over the edge.

No sooner has she had the thought than the slick rock beneath her feet once again betrays her; Nori grabs her under the arms and rights her, only letting her go once she is steady. It is perhaps the fifth or sixth time he has done this, to the point where his hands are actually hovering by her sides continually.

She can’t even find the energy to be cross with him for it.

Mahal, Nienna, and every god above, Ailväel _hates_ the Misty Mountains. In all her years of travel, she has avoided the numerous passes at all costs. The Fords of Isen might be out of her way, and they might bring her closer to Saruman than is comfortable, but at least those trails are not rife with goblin colonies. She will take the cold and stern gates of Isengaurd over a damp mountain cave _any_ day.

She has an awful suspicion that Thorin will wish to make camp in just such a cave when they finally have journeyed enough for the day; she is not sure their newfound…truce will hold with her pushing against his orders.

She is glad, at least, that Bofur is looking after Bilbo. While her feet are small, decidedly undwarvish and unacquainted with these treacherous paths, she at least is wearing boots. Bilbo is barefoot, and though Hobbit feet are hardy, the sharp, weather-smoothed rocks that form their trail are anything but kind.

Nori jerks her closer to the side of the mountain once again, since the path narrows and she failed to notice it. In all fairness, how she could be expected to notice anything in this torrent has yet to be explained, but her ears are working even if her eyes cannot, and that is why she looks up to the sky at the first rumble.

“Jus’ a thunderstorm,” Nori says, no doubt tired of pushing her along like a child.

She shakes her head, water droplets scattering.

“That was not thunder.”

Two places ahead, Dwalin overhears her.

“Wha’ was it then?”

Ailväel swallows hard, staring into the dark sky. Elladan _swore_ he was joking, _swore_ that the stories were so old that they had faded into myths – such creatures cannot be real, it is too preposterous to believe –

Something massive rumbles and shifts in the darkness, and it feels as though her heart and stomach have traded places; she swallows again at the nausea, tries to get her voice working so she can warn the others –

“By my beard – the legends are true!” Bofur shouts, pointing.

 _Yes they bloody are,_ Ailväel thinks _. And next time I see Elladan I’m going to strangle him with his own intestines._

“Take cover!” Dwalin bellows, crowding Ori and Bifur into the mountain side. Nori braces Ailväel behind him, and she fights the urge to scream when the enormous boulder shatters mere feet above their heads. Gravel and small shards of rock rain down upon them; her ears are still ringing when Nori tugs her along the path, following Thorin around another bend. Suddenly it occurs to her that he will of course seek out a cave to remove the company from the danger the stone giants present. But he does not, cannot know, of the foul things lurking within the caves of these mountains.

Determinedly ignoring the staggering drop, Ailväel pushes and works her way to the front of the line.

“Thorin!” She nearly shouts herself hoarse to be heard. “We must not take shelter in a cave! Not here!”

He looks at her incredulously. “Where would you have us go, then? We are moments from being crushed!”

“There are things more sinister than stone giants in these mountains!” She shakes her head, and peers hopelessly around them. “Our best chance – “

The ground lurches beneath their feet; Ailväel tumbles – forward, thank Mahal – straight into Thorin. He catches her easily, though he too loses his balance and tips backwards against the side of the mountain. She blinks up at him, noticing that he looks as shocked as she feels to find his arms around her waist.

“Our best chance,” she manages to say, “is to find a mountain that doesn’t move.”

The ground heaves once more, this time more forcefully. A sudden cry from behind them brings both Ailväel and Thorin’s heads snapping in that direction. The ground has opened, rock breaking apart like an eggshell and splitting the company one half from the other.

And caught right over the chasm, are Fíli and Kíli.

Ailväel does not realize she is moving, does not notice the way her feet slip dangerously close to the ledge. All she sees is the way Kíli’s hands are grasping for his brother’s, and the panicked look on Fíli’s face that nothing but separation can bring.

Still paying no mind to the rocky plunge below, she reaches across the gap before it grows too wide, snags Fíli’s shirt front, and yanks hard enough to wrench her shoulder all the way down to her fingertips. She ignores the pain, satisfied instead with the way Fíli jerks towards her across the divide. She pivots, and somehow, miraculously, Fíli goes barreling into Dwalin’s open arms.

She has a moment to savor the relief on the faces of Thorin and both his nephews, before the wet stone beneath her feet yields one more time, her sudden change in momentum and position proving too much for traction to hold its grip. One of the dwarves lunges, she is not sure which one, but their hands miss hers by inches. She feels empty air at her back, and finds Thorin’s wide, astonished eyes for one fleeting moment.

And then she is falling, through thunder and rain and darkness, until she knows no more.

/

It is only a few minutes later when Thorin leads them all into the first cave he finds.

It feels as though it has been hours, since he stood arguing with Ailväel in the rain and watched her save his nephew and consequently vanish over the side of the mountain.

He cannot decide which is making him feel sick – the look of surprised…relief? that she gave him just before she fell, or the fact that had she not acted, Fíli still likely would have survived.

His heir has not said one word since the incident; Thorin knows he will need to speak to Fíli soon. There is no room for blame, but he can see how the lad’s shoulders are already weighed down.

But for now, their burglar is proving to be an excellent distraction.

“Bilbo, you can’t – “ Bofur tries, only to have the little hobbit try and shove his way past again. “Bilbo – “

“No,” their burglar says, his voice choked. “No, she – she cannot have…”

“Miss Ailväel’s sacrifice will be meaningless if you manage to get yourself hurled off a cliff,” Thorin says sternly. “We will stay here for the night, and search in the morning when the storm is over.”

“No.” Bilbo whirls on him with such anger in his expression that Thorin almost takes a step back. “I’m not leaving her out there overnight, do you have any idea what the wild beasts will do to her – “

“I am aware,” Thorin says, trying to sound gentle now. It is evident that the loss of Ailväel is hitting Bilbo the hardest. “But she would hardly thank us for falling to our own deaths in search of her body.”

He sees his oldest nephew flinch in the corner, and resolves to speak with him before they turn in for the night. For now, he must try and keep the hobbit from acting foolishly; it is much easier said than done, because Bilbo Baggins is surprisingly stubborn.

“She would do the same for any of us,” he snaps. “And considering how it’s your nephew she died saving, I would hope you’d have a bit more respect!”

Thorin says nothing for a moment. It is evident that grief and shock are clouding Bilbo’s judgment. “Miss Ailväel was an experienced traveler, especially in these mountains. She would have been wise enough to wait for daybreak to go searching for anyone’s remains, regardless of how much she cared for them.”

To his immense relief, his words seem to pierce the fog that has so confounded their burglar. The little shoulders slump beneath the dark red coat; he sniffs and nods before turning to find a spot to curl up in.

Satisfied, Thorin makes his way to Fíli’s side. “Are you injured?”

The braids in Fíli’s mustache quiver. “No, Uncle.”

“You are certain? That was a very close call.”

“I am fine,” Fíli says shortly. “I am not the one dashed to pieces for no reason on the rocks below us, am I?”

“It was not without reason, Fee,” Thorin says as gently as he can. “She desired your safety above all else.”

“But I would have been fine – the others were.”

“But we did not know that, at the time. Miss Ailväel could only do what she thought was best. There is no blame to lay upon yourself, Fíli. Her actions were her own.”

His sister-son nods; Thorin can see any further attempts to reach him will be futile. He presses his hand into the dark blond hair just for a moment, and seeks his own rest while trying to erase the image of Ailväel, backlit by lightning and suspended in midair by terror, from his mind.

/

Bilbo may not have ever stolen a thing in his life, but many were the evenings he snuck out the door of Bag End, past his mother and father’s room, to explore the world in the moonlight. Burglaring is not his field of expertise, but sneaking certainly is. And so tiptoeing his way between the sleeping bodies of the company is quite the easy feat.

Of course, he forgot all about the fact that someone was always sitting watch.

“Bilbo,” Bofur sighs. “Won’ do any good now, to go lookin’. Too dark and it’s still rainin’ somethin’ fierce.”

“I don’t care,” Bilbo whispers savagely. The thought of Ailväel torn by rocks and beasts, when just last evening she was twirling beneath his arm in the firelight, makes him feel sick to his stomach. “She’s our friend, we can’t just leave her there.”

“We ain’t leavin’ her,” Bofur soothes. “We jus’ waitin’ for a better time to look. An’ – wha’s that?”

Flummoxed, Bilbo follows Bofur’s gaze down to the tiny sword strapped to his belt.

He has a moment to stare stupidly at the faint blue glow. _Blue – ?_

“Get up!” Thorin’s shout echoes in the tiny cave. “ _Get up!_ ”

It is too late; they are falling.

/

Her head hurts.

It is the first real thought she has, groaning and coming to in the damp dark. The second thought she has is one of very real fear, because she cannot see her hand in front of her face. It is utterly black, wherever she is, and were it not for the rocks she can feel digging uncomfortably into her back she would presume she were in whatever sort of afterlife is reserved for not-dwarves-but-not-humans like her.

Carefully, she starts with her toes. Ankles, knees, hips; every joint is tentatively, experimentally flexed to assess the damage. The only real pain is in her right knee, her left shoulder – which pisses her right off, that’s her stronger throwing arm – and her head. Of course, the latter is to be expected. Nothing feels as though it is bleeding, but in the dark it’s impossible to tell for certain. She’ll have to make a fire, which means she needs to find wood.

With a great deal of groaning, Ailväel sits up. Only then does she realize she is sitting in about half an inch of water.

Perfect. She’ll have to move if she wants to find any dry fuel for a fire. How in the name of Mahal she is going to figure out where she is, let alone find the company, is too much for her aching head to sort out at the moment. For now, she staggers to her feet and wills the urge to vomit back down her throat. Succumbing to what is likely the most severe concussion of her life will not help matters at all.

Just for something to distract her from her roiling stomach, her hands automatically pat down her weapons. Miraculously she seems to have kept all her daggers, as well as her sword. Her bow and quiver are gone, but they are the weapons she uses the least and so she is quite pleased with this turn of events. Hadhafang’s now familiar weight is a comfort on her left hip, and when she finally feels steady enough to look down at the scabbard she notices a faint blue tinge, glowing out from its edges.

Ah. Another useful trick that elvish blacksmiths ought to teach everyone else. She doubts there are orcs here, which means she has stumbled into the goblin caves.

She sighs. This is precisely why she wanted to avoid crossing the Misty Mountains. Confounded dwarves and their deadlines!

Her head is not spinning quite so severely, now, and she squints about at her surroundings. It is still far too dark for her to see properly, and while Hadhafang’s light would certainly be of use she is loathe to reveal her position to any other creatures skulking about in the vicinity.

Speaking of…

The hairs on her arms go on end.

As best she can tell, she is at one end of a large cavern, mostly filled with a lake that has a boulder in its middle. And unless her eyes deceive her – there is another faint blue glow, flickering about at the other end. Whether it is one of the company, she does not know. But only elvish steel looks like when near goblins, so surely its wielder is not her enemy.

Of much more concern, however, is the raspy voice coming from the boulder-island. Coupled with the ominous thunks of rock hitting what is unmistakably bone, Ailväel decides she does not want to meet whatever it is that is singing so horribly.

She picks her way around the water’s edge, avoiding loose pebbles and dirt that can be knocked into the lake. She is less than halfway to her goal when the blue gleam sputters out, and she finds herself swallowing down another wave of nausea when she realizes what she heard, coming from that boulder.

The singing has stopped. Ailväel goes shock-still, ever fiber of her being on a razor’s edge. A muffled shriek echoes over from where she saw the blue light earlier – good. Whatever foul thing dwells here does not know of her presence, which gives her the upper hand. Moving more quickly but still as silently as possible, she continues on, ears straining as she draws closer.

_“Games? Oh, we love games, doesn’t we Precious?”_

Oh, that voice makes her skin crawl.

But the next voice nearly makes her weep from joy:

_“Why don’t we have a game of riddles?”_

Lost in delirious relief, Ailväel nearly gives the whole charade away; somehow she manages to stay silent and finds a sizable hunk of rock behind which she can hide to wait out this game. It is evident that dear Bilbo is in his element; on and on they go in their contest. The horrible, raspy sounding creature alternates between childish earnestness to win the game and cold, bloodthirsty evil when it speaks words like _juicy_ and _scrumptious_.

Ailväel forces herself to remain hidden; doubtlessly she will need to come to Bilbo’s aid at some point, but until then it is best to let him handle this. Bargaining for safe passage up out of these caverns was a smarter idea than she could have come up with, at any rate. And so quiet she remains, until the little creature’s voice drops from its infantile whine to a malicious hiss:

_“What has it got in its pocketses?”_

She hears Bilbo take one, two stumbling steps backward. That is her cue; unsheathing Hadhafang and stepping out from her hiding place, she meets the lunging creature – much smaller than she imagined – midair with her blade.

There is a moment of pathetic shock on the poor thing’s face; Ailväel has always found it distasteful to kill when it is neither orcs nor for food. But the clawed fingers are still outstretched towards Bilbo behind her, and she pushes the sword a little deeper. The creature begins to choke, blood dribbling out of its mouth, and she pulls Hadhafang free and lets the thin, wasted corpse fall at her feet.

Satisfied when there is not so much as a death twitch, Ailväel turns to face her friend.

“Bilbo, are you – ouch!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, loosening his grip without ceasing to hug her entirely. “Oh, Miss Ailväel, we’d given you up for dead. How on earth did you survive that fall? It should not have been possible!”

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” she admits, patting his back. “I think I might have fallen into a river instead of onto some rocks, which would explain how I ended up in here. That lake must be fed from somewhere. But I was not entirely lucky. My head aches something fierce.”

“I should say so.” Bilbo draws back; she is surprised to see tears of relief shining on his face in the grimy light of the cavern. “Come, we had better make our way up to the others. They’ve gotten themselves mixed up with some goblins.”

Ailväel grimaces. “Naturally. I can’t leave you lot for five minutes, can I?”

Bilbo chuckles, taking some of her weight when her injured knee proves climbing difficult. “Thorin would undoubtedly argue the point, Miss Ailväel, but I am inclined to agree with you. We seem to fare much better when you are there to pull us out of trouble.”

/

Thorin hardly expected this journey to be easy. But Mahal, can they not catch a moment’s respite? Less than five hours have passed since they watched Ailväel disappear into the darkness, and now they are facing execution at the hands of filthy, barbaric goblins.

At least he has managed to get the king’s eye off of Ori, even if it means he is subjected to mockery that tastes as bitter as acid going down.

Worse still is the mention of a pale orc, riding a white wharg.

“That is impossible,” he snarls. “Azog was slain in battle long ago.”

The goblin king’s goiter wobbles sickeningly. “So you think his defiling days are done, do you?”

It is when he turns to speak to another, smaller goblin, that it happens.

Something small and flashing-bright steel flies overhead; there is a gurgling sort of noise, and the goblin king raises one hand in confusion to the large knife sticking out the side of his neck.

The entire hall goes silent. There is an ominous creaking noise, as the huge monster sways on his feet, before falling flat on his face with an almighty crash that sends more than one of his minions tumbling off the side.

Thorin whirls, and for a moment is positive he is hallucinating.

Bilbo Baggins stands, red coat filthy and torn, at the edge of the platform. His tiny sword is drawn, his hairy feet are in the proper stance he learned only days ago.

And by his side is Ailväel.

She looks horrible. There is blood coming from somewhere on the back of her head, dripping down her neck and staining the collar of her clothes. Her bow and quiver are gone, and she is limping. But the scowl on her face is as it always has been, and coupled with her sword – glowing blue and held aloft – it jolts hope anew into Thorin’s heart like a bolt of lightning.

“Gentlemen,” she calls. “Take up arms! Fight, if you wish to see the light of day again! _Fight!_ ”

She and Bilbo plunge into the fray; the rest of them quickly scrabble about for their weapons and set about making their way across the platform. One after another, goblins fall like flies. But there are two for every one that is felled, until Thorin feels he could drown in the bodies. Still he keeps Orcrist swinging, though the black spray threatens to blind him.

At one point, he glances over and sees Ailväel fighting beside him. She has sheathed her sword in favor of the twin daggers strapped to her ribs – one of which he is certain was thrown at the goblin king – and though she looks sore and tired she is holding her own as admirably as he would expect.

“Do you know the way out?” he shouts.

“Aye,” she hollers back. “Daylight is our best chance. This way!”

They take off, pelting down narrow crags and pathways cut into the rock. They twist endlessly, seeming to go deeper and deeper into the mountain. He does not hesitate to follow, knocking more than one goblin out of the air when they come at her back. The company is hot on his heels, with hordes of their enemy close behind, and somehow Thorin finds himself at the end of a long tunnel, with the setting sun shining through the opening.

“Quickly!” Ailväel shouts over her shoulder, quickening her pace. They sprint out into blessedly open air, and do not stop until the crevice in the mountain side is out of sight behind them. Then, and only then, does Ailväel drop to sit on a fallen log.

“Durin’s balls,” she gasps. “Can you lot not manage to avoid trouble at all on your own?”

Thorin is breathing too hard to laugh properly, though Bofur and Nori certainly manage it. Within moments the company is lost in hysterical laughter, born of relief and shock that they have survived.

Fíli stumbles to his knees before her. “Miss Ailväel – “

“Hush, now Fíli.” She pats his shoulder and smiles kindly. “There’ll be none of that. You did nothing wrong, and all’s well that ends well. I’m fine, you see?”

“Fine is perhaps being generous,” Thorin cuts in, ignoring her glare. “Though she is right, Fíli, in saying you were not at fault. Feel grateful, but not guilty.”

His nephew nods, swallowing several times before reaching up and embracing Ailväel tightly. She is surprised, but returns the hug without reservation and smiles at him when he releases her.

“Ye must be made o’ stone ye-self, lassie, to ‘ave survived a fall like that.” Óin huffs, ambling over and poking about her shoulder and knee. “Got a nasty bump on th’ head, ye do.”

“I know,” she admits. “It’s got its own heartbeat.”

Thorin shakes his head when he sees the nasty cut on her knee. The joint looks badly twisted besides. “How you managed to climb back up and find us – “

“Oh, that was all Bilbo.” She smiles fondly over at the hobbit, who blushes to the roots of his hair. “You ought to have heard him; there was some awful scavenger creature skulking about in the lower caves and tried to eat him. But Bilbo kept his head quite admirably – good thing too, as mine was still swimming – and outsmarted the little beast long enough for me to get my sword drawn. He was _wonderful_.”

“Indeed.” Thorin extends a most sincere handshake towards their burglar. “Well done, Master Baggins. This journey may cure you of your grocer tendencies yet.”

To his relief, the hobbit catches the teasing lilt to his voice and laughs. “Oh, I think many of my hobbity ways are long behind me.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” Ailväel teases as Óin tends to her head. “Imagine if the Sackville-Baggins could see you now, all torn and dusty and having missed the past six meals.”

Bilbo laughs, truly laughs then; Ailväel grins but it quickly fades to a grimace when Óin begins on her knee. She peers down at the wound and hums absently.

“You know, I’m quite sure it didn’t look nearly that bad when I first woke up.”

“Running pell-mell through a mountain with a pack of goblins on your tail will do that,” Thorin says dryly.

Óin shakes his head. “It needs more than I can do for it here. Ye best not put any more weight on it than ye can help, lassie. Ye wrenched the joint ‘fore you cut it half open. It’s too swollen to stitch up fer now.”

Ailväel sighs. “All right. Though I do not think it wise to make camp this close to the mountain.”

“Agreed.” Thorin does a quick survey of their surroundings. “There seems to be a way down from this cliff, though it appears quite steep. We have perhaps an hour of daylight left to us, are you able to walk that far?”

“I shall manage,” she assures him, but when she pushes to her feet she sways so badly that every last one of them lunges for her. She ends up clutching onto Bifur and Kíli in order to remain upright, and blinks several times before grinning sheepishly.

“Er…now I think I can manage. I must remember not to stand up so quickly until this goose egg goes away.”

“Do not worry,” Kíli says cheerfully, helping her along the uneven pathway. “I’m sure we’ll all remind you every time.”

Ailväel laughs, and though she sounds breathless with pain it is music to Thorin’s ears. “I daresay you will, Kíli. I daresay you will.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thank you everyone for the kind words and support.
> 
> No new announcements on this end. Enjoy!

By dawn, they have reached the bottom of the cliffs.

It is a hard journey, with uneven ground and a steep decline that only aggravates Ailväel’s injured knee. Óin checks it at regular intervals; with every inspection the old healer only presses his mouth into a progressively thinner line, until Thorin feels as though he is standing upon the edge of Orcrist.

Typical of her nature, Ailväel does not complain. To be sure, this might be due to the fact that she is more exhausted and wearier than any of them, but the rising sun catches the gleam of sweat upon her brow and Thorin knows that she is awake, at least in part, due to the pain.

Her good arm is currently slung around Nori’s shoulders; the company has taken turns throughout the night bearing her weight. Ordinarily Thorin would not have pushed them through the darkness, but there were no places to make camp that satisfied either his or the company’s paranoia born of the goblin caves. And so onward they trudge, until Thorin’s very bones ache.

When they at last reach level ground, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Nori carefully eases Ailväel down onto a fallen log and backs out of Óin’s way.

“Let’s see the knee first, lass.”

Obediently, Ailväel holds the tattered remnants of her trouser leg out of the way so Óin can better examine the cut. Thorin is standing by, close enough to listen but far enough to avoid being a hinderance. This means that he is also close enough to see how the deep, uneven gash curls around the top of her outer calf and ends on the inside of her thigh, just a few inches into the soft flesh above her knee. It makes him clench his jaw tightly, but Ailväel remains calm and composed while their healer pokes about.

The company bustles quietly in the background, setting up a camp with their frightfully diminished supplies. Bombur and Bofur start a fire and hang one of their three remaining cookpots over it, while Kíli and Fíli head off to find breakfast. The rest of them try to hover close to Ailväel without seeming as though they are worried in the slightest. Bilbo, by contrast, apparently cares nothing at all if wringing his hands or rubbing his forehead grates on Óin’s nerves.

“Need a poultice,” the old healer at last mutters. “Still too swollen to stitch up, lass. Ye must’ve caught it somethin’ fierce on the way off that mountain.”

As Óin clambers to his feet, he clicks his fingers at Thorin. “I’ll see to the head when I’ve gathered the herbs for the poultice. Ye get yeh hair undone, lass. Thorin will hold up a blanket.”

Ailväel sighs as Óin trots away along with his brother into the trees. They will likely be gone a long while, since they are unfamiliar with these woods and the herbs they seek may be hard to find. Bilbo takes Ailväel’s daggers as she unstraps them all; the hobbit stacks them in a tidy pile only for Ori to gather them up for cleaning and sharpening.

Finding some comfort in the company’s gentle fussing, Thorin unfolds the blanket from his own bedroll, but pauses when he hears a pained grunt. He glances over at Ailväel; she has started to reach back over her head and it is plain to see that one of her arms has limited range.

“What is it?”

She looks as though she wishes she could deny it, but merely sighs again. “My left shoulder is also injured, and I cannot reach to undo my braid. Óin will have to do it himself when he gets back, I suppose.”

“I wonder he didn’t think of it,” Bilbo mutters, hurrying over. “Here, Miss Ailväel – “

Everyone freezes; Ailväel herself flinches away from Bilbo so harshly that she sways. Their burglar pauses, hands outstretched, and frowns.

“Come now, Miss Ailväel, it will only hurt a moment – “

“No, Bilbo, I – ” Ailväel shakes her head, looking up at Thorin in what he can only describe as wide-eyed panic. Thorin finally realizes what has happened.

“You can’t mean to touch her hair!” Dori bursts, scandalized. Thorin gives him a sharp look, but it does nothing to quell the mortified silence that is now ringing through the clearing.

“I…” Bilbo frowns, only now in confusion. “I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Thorin sighs. “To unbind another’s hair is an…intimate act for dwarves.”

“Intimate!” Dori puts his fists on his hips. “If that is not an understatement, I do not know what is! A respectable dwarf does not unbind their hair in the presence of anyone but their kin, and unbinding _another’s_ hair is only done within the confines of marriage!”

The hobbit’s face floods bright red in horrified embarrassment as he begins to stutter.

“Peace, Dori,” Ailväel says firmly. “Bilbo did not know; he meant no offense.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Bilbo hastily assures her. “Do forgive me, Miss Ailväel.”

“Of course.” She smiles kindly at him. “It would hardly be fair to expect you to have learned all of our strange ways after such a short time.”

Everyone’s shoulders relax somewhat after this, mostly due to the fact that she is right. Thorin is glad to see that even Dori’s disapproving glare has melted away, replaced by concern when Ailväel tries to reach back once more to her braid and has to bite back a whimper.

“But…” Bilbo frowns again. “I’ve seen several of you without your braids in, and nobody ever said anything.”

“It’s not the state o’ hair tha’ matters,” Bofur says, his usual good cheer somewhat quashed as he looks worriedly at Ailväel. “It’s the _act_ o’ the bindin’ or unbindin’, understand.”

“Oh. Well, in that case I…. again, do forgive me if I offend anyone,” Bilbo raises his hands defensively. “But are there no exceptions? For…I don’t know, family members who are not one’s spouse? Or healers?”

“Aye,” Dwalin rumbles, surprising them all – but most of all Thorin, who does not care for the gleam in his friend’s eye one bit. “Healers can, though whoever stands as a dwarf’s _mamahshammarûn_ may also unbind their hair without fear of scandal.”

“What...what’s that word mean?”

There is an awkward pause, and then Thorin clears his throat.

“Guardian. Or, in this case, leader.”

Bilbo thinks for a moment. “You mean…such as you are, for the company?”

He sighs. “Aye.”

“Well, if that’s a sensible solution,” Bilbo pauses to watch for Dori’s approving nod, “then I think you had better hop to it, Thorin. There’s no telling how long they’ll be gone and those braids are likely making her headache worse.”

Thorin determinedly does not look towards Dwalin; the earlier gleam is sure to be a full-fledged smirk by now and he does not trust himself to refrain from smacking the son of Fundin on the head. But there is no denying that Bilbo has a point. Ailväel looks utterly miserable and no matter how she insists on it, Thorin cannot forget that she acquired these injuries saving his nephew. He watches as she shifts her position and her jaw tightens as the movement pulls on her knee.

He does not think it is pity that moves him to speak. But if it is not that he does not want to think about what it might be instead.

“Miss Ailväel, if you are willing?”

Ailväel is clearly surprised, though she does not appear offended.

“I….if you wish.”

He tilts his head. “I will not, without your consent.”

Something in his tone must soothe her a little, for her shoulders relax and some of the shock melts away from her face.

“You may.”

Even Dori is visibly pacified by now, which makes Thorin feel much less conspicuous as he sets aside his coat and hands the blanket to Dwalin. His friend does not say a word, only holds the blanket as high and wide as he can. The sunrise is behind the company, and so Thorin and Ailväel are cast into lightening shadows on their side of the screen.

Carefully, he sits astride the log so that she is twisted away from him. While her shoulder, knee and head are clearly the most severe of her injuries, it is plain that her entire body is sore and battered. Hardly a surprise, given her fall. Thorin carefully pulls his thoughts away from the all too vivid memory of her disappearing into the storm, and inches closer to her on the log.

“Has your dizziness subsided?”

“Not really,” she says quietly. “Though my stomach has settled, I’m relieved to say.”

He hums lowly, untying the strip of leather that is fastened round the end of her long, thick plait of black hair. This close, he can see that it actually is comprised of four individual braids, pulled from the top and sides of her head and then woven together in the back. Even then it falls nearly to her hips, which means it is much longer unbound. Another image comes to mind, of her looking at him cheekily from behind her screen in Rivendell and her hair swinging down over her shoulder. He still remembers how the soft afternoon sun had turned her bared skin into polished bronze.

He yanks his thoughts back into safer waters with a stern huff and focuses on pulling the tresses loose without letting them snag on any of his rings.

“What did he say to you?” Her voice is quiet, enough where Dwalin is the only one who could perhaps hear them, and then only if he tries.

Surprised, Thorin forgets the silky feel of the hair between his fingers.

“Whom?”

“The goblin king,” Ailväel explains. “By the time Bilbo and I reached you, I could tell he had spent the past half hour mocking you all. But the look on your face when you turned around boded something far worse than poor manners. What did he say?”

He swallows. “He…claimed that Azog the Defiler still lives.”

Were he not sitting so close to her, he would likely have missed the way her spine stiffens. But he does not miss it, and his fingers slow in their rhythm.

“Ailväel?”

She glances over her shoulder; he is shocked to see the tears glistening in her eyes.

“I was wrong not to tell you sooner. But – “

Realization hits him with the force of a landslide. “You were captured….”

She closes her eyes, memories twisting her features in anguish. Thorin swallows again, and slowly resumes his work in her hair. He cannot help but notice the way the pale light of dawn makes the dark waves gleam, even as coated in dirt and blood as they are; carefully he undoes the complex twisting pattern that is worked in closer to her scalp, trying not to touch the bump on her head as he tugs any snarls free as best he can. Some of it has no hope of coming out until she washes it.

When he is finished, Ailväel turns back to face him. A few tears have escaped, leaving streaks through the grime and gore on her face.

“I am sorry. You should not have had to find out such a horrible truth in that way.”

Thorin looks at her carefully, and resists the urge to brush away a tear.

“It is all right.”

“It isn’t,” she protests.

“I have never been the captive of orcs, but I can well imagine it is not an easy subject to discuss.” Thorin hands her the bit of leather that was tied around her braid. “There is nothing to forgive, Ailväel. We will have to be on our guard more than ever, is all.”

“She decent?” Dwalin cautiously peeks over the blanket.

He gives Ailväel a moment to wipe her face on her filthy sleeve, waiting for her nod.

“Aye.” Thorin does not stand, partly because he feels to do so would send the message that he is upset with her after all, and partly because he is genuinely concerned that she is on the brink of losing consciousness.

Dwalin nods, and lowers the blanket so the entire company can see them. In the meantime the sun has risen, and the warmth and light are welcome even if it means that it is easier to see how everyone looks anxious and frightened. Thorin wishes he did not feel the same so he might know how to distract them. But there is simply no denying that Ailväel’s injuries are horribly painful, and the fact has everyone on edge. There is nothing to be done for it.

To his immense relief, Óin bustles into view with a bundle of herbs in each hand. Glóin is just behind him, carrying a skin of water and a wooden bowl that looks very hastily carved.

“Now, lassie.” Óin kneels before them. “Since we can’t stitch your knee up just yet, we’ll need to keep close watch for infection. These bandages will need to be changed regularly.”

Ailväel nods, watching as her knee is first washed, then anointed with Óin’s poultice and lastly swaddled in a strip that looks torn from someone’s undershirt. Óin is satisfied with it, though not pleased, and stands to direct Ailväel so she is bent over her knees, head bowed to the forest floor. Her hair swings down, the ends pooling on the grass at her feet in a thick black curtain. Óin gently fingers through the locks until she flinches.

“There we are.” He peers closer. “Mercy o’ Mahal, lass, ye nearly cracked your skull wide open.”

“Is it serious?” Bilbo leans in, wringing his hands.

“It’ll heal,” Óin says. “But she’s in for a few days of a powerful headache. I’d give my ear trumpet for tha’ wizard to be here right now.”

“Gandalf will join us soon enough,” comes Ailväel’s tired voice, muffled slightly by her position. “I shall manage until then.”

None of them can find the mettle to give false reassurances. Óin tends to her head as best he can, while Glóin holds a stick from the fire for him to see by.

“What of her shoulder?” Thorin asks.

Óin shakes his head. “Nothing to be done for it but to limit her use. I can try to bind it so it will hold still whilst it heals, but other than being badly bruised I think it’s the least o’ her worries.”

Thorin breathes a very small sigh of relief, and smiles when Ailväel snorts irritably.

“It’s my stronger throwing arm, it had better heal quickly if I’m to be of any use to anybody.”

“There’ll be time enough later to be _of use_ ,” Óin tells her sternly, but there are chuckles all round the clearing now. They fade instantly when Ailväel sits up again and nearly falls off the log as her head spins; Thorin manages to steady her and finds one of her hands clutching his arm. She blinks up at him.

“I believe I may need to lie down,” she says in a faint voice.

“I believe you may be right,” he agrees drily.

“We’ve got a place ready, just here,” Ori gestures to a bedroll spread close to the fire. As many of them have bedding left have contributed to make a much more comfortable resting place than their journey has thus far allowed. Ailväel huffs fondly.

“Are the rest of you to go without any sort of blanket at all?”

“The rest of us did not fall off a mountain.”

Surprised by Fíli’s voice, Thorin turns to see his nephews returning, along with several rabbits and pheasants between them. Fíli fixes Ailväel with a surprisingly firm look, but she merely reciprocates it.

“Fíli, I told you not to worry yourself – “

“And I shan’t, as long as you cooperate and go to sleep.” Fíli sets his catch down for Bombur to start cleaning and gives her a cheeky grin.

Ailväel sighs fondly again. Thorin helps her stand and keeps her steady as she hobbles over to the bedroll.

“One of us will wake you later so you may eat,” he tells her. “Rest, for we will not be able to tarry here for long.”

It is testament to how exhausted she is, that she barely manages a nod before collapsing onto the blankets and falling asleep in seconds. Thorin drapes a blanket over her and nods to Bifur, who has seated himself close by with some whittling. Then he heads over to stand next to Dwalin, who is standing guard at the edge of their clearing.

“I don’t like us camping this close to the mountains,” he says. He finds his pipe still in his coat pocket, though immediately he realizes that he has no pipe weed. He sighs.

“Don’t have much choice, till she’s back on her feet.” Dwalin crosses his arms. “Beyond me how she’s alive to begin with, mind. Tha’ fall woulda cracked even your skull open.”

“Luck,” Thorin mutters, once again having to banish the memory of Ailväel falling. “Sheer dumb luck, and the hobbit.”

“Speaking o’ dumb…” Dwalin rounds on him with surprising vehemence. “You’re goin’ to confuse the lass if you don’ make up your mind.”

“What?” Thorin squints at him, baffled.

Dwalin rolls his eyes. “Don’ pretend with me that you didn’t relish ev’ry second o’ that,” he nods meaningfully at the fallen log Ailväel was sat on not five minutes ago. “You’ve been givin’ her lingerin’ glances since we left the elves.”

Having been friends with Dwalin for many years, Thorin knows that the very worst thing he can do is go on the defensive.

And yet.

“I do not know what you mean.”

Judging from the unimpressed look Dwalin gives him, Thorin’s denial is far from convincing.

“I mean the fact that you stayed in her room while she bathed in Rivendell, and the fact that you’ve been teasin’ her for weeks now, tryin’ to get her to blush and laugh, and the fact that you looked ‘bout ready to let her cry on your shoulder before I brought the blanket down.”

Thorin is immensely grateful that his hair is covering his ears, and that they are far away enough from the company for anyone to overhear them. As it is, he sets his gaze firmly on the horizon and pretends he doesn’t see Dwalin’s smirk growing out of the corner of his eye.

“I have never behaved improperly – “

“Obviously,” Dwalin snorts. “Dori woulda let you know if you had. An’ anyhow, I don’ care how proper you may or may not be. If you continue to act besotted wit’ her, eventually even she’ll notice. An’ you’ll be in trouble then.”

“Why?” Thorin asks before he can stop himself.

“From wha’ she’s said, she’s never known a moment’s kindness from any dwarf. D’you think she’ll have any idea of wha’ to do if anyone expressed interest in courtin’ or marryin’ her?”

“I –”

“She wouldn’t believe ye,” Dwalin tells him bluntly. “She’d think it a joke, and a cruel one at that. If you like her enough to flirt then you had better make sure you’ll like her enough for the rest o’ it.”

“You are one to lecture me about liking her,” Thorin objects. “You’ve been the prickliest of us all ever since we left the Shire.”

“I’m humble enough to admit I was wrong ‘bout her,” Dwalin shrugs. “She’s on our side, that much I’m convinced of. Bu’ there’s many years of achin’ her heart’s had to endure, Thorin. Don’ go tramplin’ all over it just because you’re curious.”

Flabbergasted, Thorin can only stare at his oldest friend. To his credit, Dwalin does not shy away from the scrutiny. He meets Thorin’s eyes and that is how Thorin realizes that his friend is perhaps the only person in the company who has noticed anything between himself and Ailväel – not that there is anything _to_ notice – and also the only person who would dare to say the things that he has.

“I have no intention of trampling over anyone’s heart,” he says, at last and quietly. “Least of all hers.”

“Good.” Dwalin glances back at the campfire; Thorin sees everyone going about their evening duties and rituals much more quietly than usual. The reason for this is evident – the sleeping form of Ailväel, huddled on the pile of everyone’s blankets under the watchful eyes of eleven overly anxious mother hens.

For the first time, Thorin lets himself appreciate just what this woman has come to mean to his company rather than just to him. As an individual Ailväel is a woman of honor and kindness, the sort of person anyone would be happy to count as a friend. But as a comrade, Ailväel has repeatedly shown a stubbornness and determination that Thorin has only ever seen in a dwarf. They have come to rely on her good humor, her practicality and her loyalty to see them through the monotonous days of the trail as much as the perils found within the Misty Mountains.

Would they have made it this far without her?

He does not know. And he does not care to wonder.

“She’s a fine woman,” Dwalin rumbles quietly. “You could do worse.”

Thorin snorts. “I am hardly planning on proposing, Dwalin.”

“Don’t see why you shouldn’t.” Dwalin shrugs. “Gandalf said she comes from a respectable family. Did you get a look at her clan braids? Might help you realize which one. Though I’d wait to figure out a courtin’ gift till after we get the Mountain back.”

“I…” Thorin frowns. He remembers appreciating the design of Ailväel’s braids, but details like clan braids or her battle braids elude him. “I do not remember.”

“No matter,” Dwalin grins at him. “You can just ask her when you help her put ‘em back in.”

It is Thorin’s turn to roll his eyes; then he pauses, frowning.

“How did you know I...when we were in Rivendell…?”

“How did I know you stayed in her room when she took her bath?” Dwalin snorts. “I didn’t, till jus’ now.”

Thorin snaps his teeth shut and walks away, ignoring the chuckles that sound from behind him and wishing he could settle things as they once did as lads in Erebor – with his fists.

/

When she wakes, it is slowly and with the sensation that her head is filled with mud. She shifts a little and winces in general discomfort. It is enough to wake her fully, and Ailväel finds herself squinting up a clear blue sky peeking through the treetops.

“She’s awake!” Kíli’s voice makes her jump and her knee protests, but before anyone can admonish him he shuffles closer. “Sorry, Miss Ailväel. The others are all far down at the stream and I was worried you might need Óin. How do you feel?”

Ailväel frowns up at him. How does she feel?

Horrible, to be honest.

She opens her mouth to say this but suddenly the trees and sky above her spin faster and her stomach rolls. She squeezes her eyes shut; she fists her hands in the blankets underneath her in an attempt to ground herself but the nausea is only getting worse –

“How is she?”

She does not know who it is, all she knows is that what precious little is in her stomach is about to reappear. With an almighty groan and a movement that sends pain spiking down from her knee to the very tips of her toes, she sits up and twists as she lets her torso fall to the side. Several of the others squawk in protest, but right now it is all she can do keep her mouth closed to avoid retching all over the company’s bedding.

Someone kneels behind her; an arm curls round her middle and helps her shift to the edge of the bedroll. Another hand scoops her hair behind her neck, and she cannot even find the time to thank them before her stomach empties itself forcefully and painfully onto the ground.

When it is over at last, Ailväel tilts her head back to rest against whichever poor soul has had to help her vomit into the dirt.

“Thank you,” she rasps.

“You are welcome,” rumbles a familiar voice. Thorin gently adjusts his hold on her hair so he is not in danger of kneeling on the ends. “Is it your head again?”

“I am not sure.” She wipes her mouth, grimacing at the after taste. “One moment I was looking up at the trees and the next I could not even tell which way was up.”

“Concussion,” Óin says from somewhere behind her, as though she didn’t know that’s what it is already. “Help her sit up, Thorin. Nice and slow, mind. She needs to have somethin’ to eat before we put out the fire.”

Ailväel’s stomach twists at the mere thought of food, but she knows she needs the strength so she does not argue. Thorin gently pulls her upright, and braces his arm behind her back. She thus ends up tucked into the crook of his elbow, peering into a bowl of stew while the company hovers anxiously around her. Poor Bilbo is nearly tearing the skin off his hands with all the wringing.

“Eat, lass.” Óin reminds her sharply as he undoes the bandage on her outstretched knee. “We’ve got to get moving soon and I’ll not have you dealing with lack of food on top o’ everythin’ else.”

She obeys, though it tastes like paste in her mouth. Still she swallows, ordering her stomach to settle once more and taking as small bites as she dares. Fíli brings her a fresh water skin, which does more to help clear her head than anything else. Once the acrid taste of vomit is gone she is able to almost enjoy her food.

“I was afraid of this,” Óin says suddenly. Thorin’s arm goes as hard as iron against her back.

“What is it?” he asks gruffly.

Óin shakes his head. “Infection has already set in. We’ll have to clean it out, and I need more of those herbs.”

Ailväel’s stomach rolls again; she sets aside her bowl with a grimace.

“We cannot stay here any longer,” Thorin says. “We must be farther away from the mountains by nightfall. It is nearly midday now.”

Óin sighs. “We’ll have to carry you, lass. Even with a walking stick you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Truthfully, there is nothing Ailväel wants less at the moment than to walk. As undignified as being toted about is, she knows her knee will thank her for it. She shrugs, too weary to pretend to be upset.

“I don’t think I’m the one owed an apology for that. I’m sure I smell awful.”

It works; chuckles sound through the whole company and they disperse to finish breaking up camp. Thorin carefully pulls her to her feet so Bofur and Bifur can pack the bedrolls.

“Do you wish for me to rebraid your hair?” he asks quietly. Ailväel lets him lower her back down onto the fallen log she sat on earlier.

“I don’t think so,” she sighs. “Bilbo was right, they made my headache worse.”

Thorin hums thoughtfully. “I could do a looser weave, to keep it out of your way.”

“What I really want is to wash it,” she sighs.

“And you shall, at the first stream we find that is far enough from the mountains,” Thorin promises. He produces a simple comb from his pocket. “Until then?”

At her nod, he calls for Kíli to hold up the blanket once more and seats himself behind her, astride the log as before. Despite the fact that she woke up not five minutes ago, Ailväel finds herself growing sleepy as Thorin works the comb through the snarls. He is as gentle as he was earlier; the smooth rhythm of his hands through her hair is a balm that she did not know she longed for till now. The filtered afternoon light does little to keep her awake. Everything looks soft and warm like this, and she finds herself longing to simply lean back and rest against him.

She sits more fully upright and fixes her eyes resolutely on squirrel foraging nearby for nuts, properly horrified at her own thoughts. But it is nothing compared to what Thorin says next.

“I can still put in your clan braids,” Thorin offers once he is finished with the comb. “And your _mababnulzanâtu idmêmrukhs_.”

She closes her eyes, partly from heartache and partly from a desire to pretend she has not heard him.

Mahal and Maker above, how is she supposed to explain this?

“No need,” she says in as light a voice as she can manage.

He hesitates before slowly sectioning her hair off for a simple, loose plait. “I am sorry. I did not wish to offend or overstep.”

“You haven’t,” she assures him. She has to fight the nonsensical urge to reach one hand back to his knee, which is just visible in her periphery. She is inexplicably aware of him, seated behind her on the log, his legs stretched on either side and his solid warmth radiating into her back. She tries not to fidget, and focuses on reassuring him some more.

“You haven’t,” she repeats. “Just too much fuss for now. You are kind to offer.”

He makes no reply, though his hands move with greater certainty through her hair, she knows he believes her. The braid takes no time at all to place due to its simplicity, and once Kíli has lowered the blanket once more Ailväel finds herself faced with the awkward task of deciding which poor dwarf must carry her.

“Er…” she looks around at them all. The camp is entirely packed away now, the fire put out and everyone is looking at her expectantly. “I…well, I suppose it makes no difference to me.”

Thorin scoops her up and stands in one movement. “In that case, we shall take it in turns. Though,” he adds, “I do not foresee anyone being wearied by the task. You weigh less than Fíli and Kíli did as babes.”

“Well, do try and remember I haven’t got my daggers on me,” she says stupidly, trying hard not to stare at the dramatic, bold line his beard makes against the fair skin of his neck.

“Not to worry,” Ori pipes up. “Nori and I are carrying them all for you. I even counted them so you’d be sure to get them all back.” He sends his brother a reproachful look.

“Thank you,” she says belatedly. “Does anyone know where we are?”

“Aye,” Balin points south east. “We should find the trail that will take us towards Mirkwood, following this path. It’s about a fortnight’s journey.”

“We’ll stop at the first chance, though, to see to that leg.” Óin’s voice leaves no room for argument, though Ailväel has the distinct impression that nobody even wants to try.

“Aye,” Dwalin says, hefting his axes. “Sooner we get a move on, sooner we can stop again.”

And with that, everyone trundles after Balin.

“You are comfortable?” Thorin asks her quietly, shifting his grip carefully away from her knee.

She shrugs. “As best as can be hoped for, I think. I shall endeavor not to vomit all over you.”

His mouth twitches.

“I am obliged. Though it would be forgiven, eventually.”

“I am sure,” she says drily, adjusting her good arm around his shoulders so that he might focus better on the trail. “As soon as you’d find a bath for yourself, I imagine.”

He hides his laughter for the most part, though his chest rumbles against her. She clears her throat to distract herself.

“Pray tell, how did you find yourselves in the goblin caves, after I went to such pains to keep you out of them?”

As they trudge along, he tells her of hidden trapdoors and long falls into mountains rather than off of them. Ailväel means to scold him, afterwards, because there was a _reason_ she had told him to stay out of those caves. But the gentle swaying back and forth as he walks, combined with the warm afternoon and his deep voice, leave her with heavy eyelids.

“You are tired,” Thorin says.

“I just woke up not an hour ago.” Her voice is irritated, though not at him. She is glad that he seems to know this already.

He hums gently. “I hardly think a four hour nap is enough to recover from injuries such as yours. No one would blame you if you were to sleep now. In fact, Óin would likely prefer it.”

She hesitates, and he looks down at her in concern.

“You are not comfortable enough to sleep?”

She is, actually. And that is precisely the problem. But Thorin shifts her in his arms, and her upper body sways unexpectedly. She finds herself leaning completely on his shoulder, her forehead resting against the side of his neck. Horrified, she jolts upright again.

“I – forgive me – “

“Ailväel.” Thorin stops walking, so he can make full eye contact. “I would have you rest, not keeping yourself awake by fretting over such inconsequential things as propriety. It is not cumbersome to carry you. Do not worry for me.”

His eyes are full of gentle command; flustered as she is by his nearness, she cannot think of a reply. So she simply nods bashfully, and lets herself relax into him once more. As though proving his point, Thorin lifts his head ever so slightly, and she feels his beard scrape across her brow. It feels almost as though he is nuzzling against her.

The thought is as laughably ridiculous as it is embarrassing, and so Ailväel drifts off to sleep once more with a rueful smile on her face.

/

Due to his complete inexperience on adventures such as these, Bilbo has become very acquainted with feeling nervous absolutely all the time. The ponies, Bree, climbing mountains and outwitting trolls and forgetting handkerchiefs – he has been in a state of semi-panic ever since the door to Bag End clicked shut behind him. He’s used to it.

What he is not used to, is the dwarves feeling the same. Even worse is when they show it; he has been around them long enough to understand that false bravado and brushing things off is how they tend to handle the dangers of the trail.

And so the fact that every last one of them is turning every five seconds, and sending anxious glances towards the limp figure in Thorin’s arms –

He is nearly ready to pull his hair out.

They walk all through the afternoon and into the twilight. They are every one of them about to drop from sheer exhaustion, but worry for Ailväel and fear of any stray goblins wandering this far in the protection of darkness spur them on, until at last Thorin deems the distance great enough. They find a suitable clearing with a stream nearby, and this time Bilbo holds the blanket up while Thorin quickly unbinds Ailväel’s hair.

She is still asleep, not having woken once since they left their camp this morning. Óin is gruffer than ever, most displeased about the state of her knee.

“Need to clean that gash on her head,” he grumbles. “The knee will take the longest. I’ll see to the rest o’ her while the water’s heating. The pain is likely to wake her.”

Thorin’s jaw tightens at that proclamation. He is seated beside Ailväel, and though he is not touching her his mere presence seems like an embrace.

Bilbo watches as Glóin mashes more herbs for a fresh poultice. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”

The fire-headed dwarf shrugs. “None o’ her injuries are deadly. But fever from infection can be, that’s for certain.”

Bilbo actually feels a little color leave his face.

Thorin clears his throat. “Though none are more stubborn than our Miss Ailväel. More hard-headed than any of Mahal’s kind.”

Glóin seems to realize his blunder. “Yes, o’ course. She’s a tough one, laddie. If anyone can survive this, it’s her. Don’t you fret.”

He would have better luck telling the sun not to come up in the morning. Bilbo turns away and wanders over to stand beside Fíli, who is keeping watch on the direction they have come. He faces the mountains behind them, and hears Fíli sigh beside him.

“I don’t know what Uncle will do. We cannot leave her behind, not when I owe her my life. But she is not fit to travel like this.”

Bilbo has no words of encouragement to offer; he simply hums and peers out into the gathering darkness –

Wait.

He squints a little harder, leans forward ever so slightly…

There.

“What is it?” Fíli asks.

Bilbo shakes his head, straining his eyes until they ache….

For one moment, his stomach writhes with the thought that the glowing pair of eyes peering at him through the trees is Gollum, revived and hissing with riddles about _precious_ and things _juicy_ and _clever_. Bilbo’s waistcoat pocket feels as heavy as it would were he hiding a stone within; he swallows the enormous lump in his throat –

“Bilbo, what is it?” Fíli asks, more sharply.

Then those horrible eyes shift, narrow; a vicious snarl rumbles out of the darkness and Bilbo is snatching his little sword from its sheath before the warg even makes it into the far reaches of the campfire’s light.

It is upon them in three huge bounds. Miss Ailväel’s lessons are echoing in his ears to the unsteady beat of his frantic pulse. Bilbo sidesteps the snarling teeth, swings up with all the strength he can muster and is gratified by the outraged howl and spray of warm black blood that greets him.

Fíli was faster to draw his weapons, though Bilbo was closer. Between the two of them the warg is dispatched quickly. It chills Bilbo down to the bone with one last howl, before it crumples into a heap of blood-matted fur.

They turn to face the company; nearly every one of them is armed and looks as they were halfway across the clearing before realizing that the warg was already dead. The exceptions are Ailväel, who is still out cold; Thorin, who is half-kneeling beside her but looking murderously angry; and Óin, who is bent over his patient in the middle of applying the poultice to her leg.

For a moment, no one says anything. Bilbo thinks perhaps this is just a stray warg, perhaps they can still rest here for the night…

That, of course, is when a terribly familiar howl echoes through the valley.

So quickly that it is almost in the same moment, Ailväel gives a horrible, shuddering gasp and sits completely upright. It startles the life out of Óin and Thorin both, who reach to steady her. She brushes their hands away and starts to clamber to her feet.

“Lass, what’re you – “

“We must run.” Ailväel says, ignoring every attempt to help her. She looks more awake and alert than since before she fell off the mountain. But, Bilbo realizes with dread, she also looks more terrified than he has ever seen her.

“Ailväel,” Thorin tries.

At last pushing to her feet by using his shoulder for leverage, she levels him with a glare. “I know that warg’s call, Thorin. This is no orc pack as we dealt with on the doorstep of Rivendell. Azog is coming, if he not nearly upon us already. _We must run_.”

She turns away and grabs her sword from Dori; when neither he nor any of the others make any move to leave she huffs angrily and shoves him along, yanking Bofur up as well.

“Aren’t you listening? Run!”

“Your leg – “ Kíli tries.

“Never mind my leg, you idiot! Would I rather be slaughtered by orcs than walk with a limp?” she shoves Bombur along as well, no small task even in an uninjured state. “ _Run!_ ”

At last they obey; Bilbo is hurried along by Fíli and watches ahead as Ailväel behaves as though her knee were not injured at all. She flies through the trees, dark hair loose and wild as smoke. They manage to keep up though she is clearly the faster runner, and Bilbo sees more than once her anxious glance over her shoulder, searching for Fíli, Kíli and Thorin.

Bilbo can hear the large, heavy paws pounding into the earth behind them. At one point Fíli reaches back with one of his swords and something enormous crashes into the bushes right at Bilbo’s heels. He does not stop, or look back even as he feels the warg’s warm blood dripping down the backs of his legs.

On and on they run, sprinting over rocks and streams and through patches of moonlight that make the blue gleam of Bilbo’s sword look all the more eerie. He is thankful for the elvish magic, though. It makes Ailväel and Thorin’s blades shine through the darkness and gives them something to follow, even if none of them really know where they will go. They are weeks of travel from any kind of shelter, and they will run out of strength long before the orcs will. Bilbo swallows the despair back down and ducks under a branch, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time that Gandalf were with them.

A hulking mound of snarling teeth and fur lunges out of the darkness on Bilbo’s left; he swings wide with his sword and it hits home. But he did not account for the orc sitting astride it, and he watches the jagged blade come down with almost morbid curiosity.

Fíli shouts, and one of his daggers streaks past Bilbo’s ear to find lodging in the orc’s throat. Fíli hurries forward, pulls it free as he pulls Bilbo with him after the others.

It seems impossible that the orcs have not yet caught them. Their path has neither rhyme nor reason to it, only a mad dash through forest and brush. Bilbo risks a glance behind him, and though no orcs are in sight he can see the trees moving in the distance. The howls have not stopped; they are so close it is making the hair on his toes stand on end.

Distracted, he runs straight into Bombur and falls backwards to the ground. Bofur tugs him up again, but Bilbo notes with horror that they have stopped.

“What – why – “ he pants, looking around at the others. They all appear as confused as he, except for Thorin. He is looking intently at Ailväel.

Her sword is held aloft, and with the moon currently hidden by a cloud the elvish blade’s pale glow offers little effect on the surrounding darkness. She is standing perfectly still, looking to her left with an expression hopeful yet terrified.

“ _Vinur?_ ” she calls, in a strange voice.

For a moment, there is nothing but the increasing howls of the monsters behind them.

And then.

Bilbo feels his heart crawl halfway up his throat when something rumbles in the shadows to the company’s left. Already he can tell it is too big to be either org or warg; Ailväel does not retreat, but instead turns to face whatever it is with that same look of cautious hope.

Her voice is surer, clearer though Bilbo can see the way her sword trembles as she still holds it up for them to see. How she is remaining conscious, much less upright, he does not want to imagine.

“ _Vinur? Ert þetta þú?_ ”

The moon comes from behind its shroud, and Bilbo’s heart plummets from his throat down to his feet.

His first thought is bear. But then the beast stands upright, and the entire company flinches away. Ailväel holds her ground, and to everyone’s utter shock an enormous grin splits her face.

“ _Hjarta mitt er fegið að sjá þig, vinur minn_.”

The gigantic creature snuffles against her forehead, and she reaches up to pat its furred cheek. She murmurs more in the strange language, with the beast growling low in response. Fascinated, the company watches as the two have a conversation of sorts; Ailväel seems to be asking the beast something, but also reassuring it judging by her soothing tones. The only replies she receives are given in the form of snorts and low rumbles. Bilbo supposes they ought to be grateful that it is not baring its teeth at her.

After a short exchange Ailväel turns to the rest of them. “Come, quickly.”

Wordlessly, they all follow her in the direction from which the beast has come. She runs still, though it is not with the same degree of panic as before. It also with a much more pronounced limp; whatever new life that was given her by the fear of those orcs has now left her, and she looks nearly as pained and miserable as she did when Bilbo first found her in the goblin caves.

“Ailväel,” Thorin begins.

“He is a friend,” she explains, yelping sharply when her bad leg must take more of her weight. “He will give us time to reach shelter. It is not far, but we must hurry.”

It is enough to placate everyone; they obey her without question and a few minutes later, the trees disappear and they happen upon open field. Thorin hesitates, but Ailväel only shakes her head.

“We have no choice, though I know it is not preferable. But we are close. Trust me, Thorin.”

Even as she speaks, Thorin is taking the first few steps past the trees; he abruptly turns back, sheathing Orcrist and scooping Ailväel back into his arms. She keeps her own sword at the ready but does not protest, which really only serves to wring Bilbo’s poor nerves even further.

They run across the field, splashing across a narrow stream and looking anxiously over their shoulders every step of the way. No orcs appear at the treeline, but in the not-so-great distance a tremendous roar echoes through the night. Bilbo swallows a new wave of fear and runs faster, ignoring the stitch in his side and keeping his tiny sword out and ready.

Ailväel guides them from Thorin’s hold, through another copse of trees and across another stream. Looming ahead of them is one last cluster of foliage, though Bilbo can make out the silhouette of something huge and bulky amongst the trees.

The uneven grasses suddenly yield to hard-packed earth beneath his feet; the trees, even in the darkness, appear more orderly here, and tended.

“Quickly!” Ailväel urges them, pointing down what is now discernable as a path that ends at the most enormous door Bilbo has ever seen, attached to an equally enormous house.

Dwalin reaches the portal first, grunting as he shoves against the unyielding wood. “Locked.”

“For Durin’s sake,” Ailväel sighs, and points with her sword at the heavy latch above their heads.

Mumbling something likely very rude under his breath, Dwalin reaches up and lifts the latch. They scurry in behind him, and at her direction someone starts a fire in a hearth that is taller than the front door of Bag End. In a few short moments, the room is lit in a warm glow and Bilbo finds himself standing in a room that reduces everyone in the company to the size of children’s toys. The table is too high for even Dwalin to see the top of it, and the chairs will require a great deal of undignified crawling to sit upon.

There is a stack of soft, sweet-smelling hay in the corner upon which Thorin deposits Ailväel. Her face is drenched in fresh perspiration, causing bits of her hair to stick to her temples, and there is a furrow between her eyes that the safety of this house has not eased. When she is set down her leg jostles slightly and she fists the fur collar on Thorin’s coat until her knuckles crack.

“Apologies,” Thorin says quietly. His hand rests on her upper back, and Bilbo is absolutely certain that he is the only one who notices their leader’s thumb stroke soothingly across Ailväel’s shoulder blades. He thinks Thorin himself may even be unaware of it, though Ailväel might be too addled with pain and fever to notice anything.

“Needs lancing,” Óin mutters. “But it’ll have to wait till the morning. I can’t see well enough by the fire and we best not light every window in the house, not with orcs and beast both out there.”

“He is not a beast,” Ailväel objects tiredly. “His name is Beorn. He is a skinchanger, and he has been my friend for many years. We will be safe here, so everyone had better get some sleep.”

Her speech is somewhat slurred by the end of it. It is little effort on Thorin and Óin’s parts to urge her back until she is lying upon the soft straw.

“Rest now, Miss Ailväel.” Óin pats her good knee. “We’ll watch over you. Tomorrow will be a trying day, for certain.”

“Good,” she mumbles, already half asleep. “Nice to have a change of pace.”

The rest of them smile, but she is already past hearing anyone’s chuckles. Bilbo jumps when Bofur claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Well,” the cheery dwarf says. “Tha’ was a closer call than I care to have again, I’ll say tha’ much.”

“Agreed,” Thorin says, standing. “Dwalin, Fíli, help me find all the other doors into this place. Let us hope that our host is fond enough of Miss Ailväel to house us for her sake, so that we might regain our strength. But for tonight at least, we will have to take turns keeping watch.”

The watch is divided quickly – one at every door (explorations find three in total) and one to sit beside Ailväel in the case she should take a turn for the worse. Bilbo is the first to be assigned this watch, and he settles himself into the hay beside her with his pipe and the last of his Longbottom Leaf.

The others are quick to find either their posts or their beds. Thorin, who will be taking third watch at the kitchen door, pauses next to him, gazing down at Ailväel in concern.

“Take care of her, Master Baggins.” There is something fond in Thorin’s voice that makes Bilbo raise his eyebrows. The dwarf notices, and clears his throat awkwardly.

“I shall,” Bilbo at last says, more to provide a rescue than anything else. Thorin nods once, and stalks off to find his own rest.

Bilbo watches him, wondering if he will ever reach a point with the stubborn, proud dwarf where he can tease. As he turns away, he catches Dwalin’s eye across the room; to Bilbo’s shock, the burly dwarf is smirking, and somehow Bilbo knows the amusement is not directed at him.

Bilbo huffs his own laughter into his pipe, resolving to tease Ailväel when she is well on the effect she has on even the most stone-headed of dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KHUZDUL
> 
> Mamahshammarûn: He who continues to protect   
> (in this case, a gender neutral term referring to whomever is charged with the safety and wellbeing of others – such as someone who is fostering children. In this fic, I’ve tweaked it to also include the leader of group like Thorin’s company, since he is responsible for their welfare.)
> 
> Mababnulzanâtu idmêmrukhs: braids of battle   
> (combination of 2 terms – “braids” and “coming to battle-ready age”. The braids a dwarf receives on their thirtieth birthday when they are considered old enough to fight, though they do not come of age until 40 and are not considered fully adults until 65. Kíli is 77 during this story, to help give you some point of reference on how dwarven aging works.)
> 
> BEORN
> 
> His language is unnamed, since according to Wiki his kind speaks Westron (English, to us non-Middle Earthers). But I decided to give his kind their own tongue, and since Beorn’s name is derived from the Old Norse word for bear, I’ve just used straight Icelandic. All I’ve got is Google Translate, so if I’ve butchered anything please let me know and I’ll gladly fix it!
> 
> Vinur: friend
> 
> Vinur? Ert þetta þú? : Friend? Is that you?
> 
> Hjarta mitt er fegið að sjá þig, vinur minn. : My heart is glad to see you, my friend.


End file.
